


Shades of Red and Gold

by lily_winterwood



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Thorin, Butt Plugs, Collars, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Play, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, Healthy Relationships, Impact Play, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Play Party, Public Hand Jobs, Rimming, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safer Sex, Safewords, Semi-Public Sex, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Subdrop, Subspace, Switching, Top Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 95,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You seem to know a lot about it,” Thorin remarks.<br/>“I’m particularly adamant about debunking the common misconceptions about this lifestyle,” replies Bilbo cheerily. “Though, I will admit I have had first-hand experience.”<br/>“Really.”<br/>“There’s really nothing quite like it.”<br/>“I wouldn’t have, uh, thought you were...” Thorin’s blushing harder now.<br/>“We come from so many different places,” says Bilbo with a small smile. “And I suppose I’ve always had a bit of an adventurous streak.”</p><p>Or, the AU in which Bilbo owns a sex toy store, Thorin is hoping to get in touch with his sexual wants and needs, and a delightful agreement is struck between the two of them as a result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's Sexuality Education Week at my school, and I've been wanting to write something depicting a healthy BDSM relationship in contrast to everyone's 'favourite' awful BDSM AU _Fifty Shades of Grey_ for quite a while. Hence, this. We'll see how this goes!
> 
> Also, my tumblr is [evil-bones-mccoy](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/) if you're interested in contacting me personally.
> 
> WARNINGS: This work is primarily about a healthy BDSM relationship. That being said, some characters in the fic have experienced abusive BDSM relationships in the past ala _Fifty Shades_ , because I find that it is important to discuss both the proper, safe-sane-consensual form of BDSM as well as those people who hide behind the lifestyle as an excuse to do terrible things to other people. I will provide warnings for this as well as any other potentially triggering/squicking things that might not be in the tags with each new chapter, but I also strongly advise reader discretion. If anything upsets you, please step back and take care of yourself.

_Cover by the wonderful[aurasama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aurasama/pseuds/aurasama)!_

* * *

The room is dimly-lit, candlelight and firelight casting his Consort’s face in a sensual dance of light and shadow. Thorin Oakenshield is kneeling on all fours, naked and bound in the middle of the room, staring helplessly at the man standing before him.

“Your Majesty has been such a naughty boy,” his Consort drawls, golden curls reflecting the firelight as they fall, whisper soft, into his face. He leans down, presses teasing, taunting kisses to Thorin’s face, over his brows, his nose, his cheeks. The softness of his kisses is quickly replaced by a firmer slap to one cheek. “And naughty boys must be taught a lesson.”

“Please,” Thorin murmurs, fingers curling into the soft rug underneath them.

“I love it when you beg. Please what, my pet king?”

“Touch me more.”

“Why should I touch you when you’ve been so naughty? Starting a war over such a small, insignificant jewel? No, no, my spoiled pet, you must be punished for it. You won’t be allowed to see me, and you can’t come until I say so.”

Thorin whines, even as his Consort reaches down to stroke his already half-hard cock.

“Show me you’ve got self control, Your Majesty, or else I’ll have to punish you.” His Consort’s voice is a silken whisper against the shell of his ear; Thorin feels the velvet of his robe brush against his skin, and shivers. He strains for his Consort’s touch, but the other man makes a tsking noise, reaching into the folds of his robes and pulling out a black silken blindfold and fastening it over Thorin’s eyes.

Devoid of one sense, all of Thorin’s other ones become heightened. He can smell the musk of his Consort’s aftershave, hear his soft footsteps behind him, feel the gentle teasing touch of fingertips against his ass followed by a light yet sharp sting as his Consort slaps him.

He’s softer and slower at first, but gradually the slaps increase in intensity and speed, and Thorin is crying out in the exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure. Everything feels so much clearer, so much sharper without his sight to ground him, and he is lost to sensation, to the sting and thud that is his Consort’s punishing touch.

“Self control, Your Majesty,” his Consort breathes in his ear. “You’re not allowed to come, remember?”

Thorin moans, as his Consort rubs his sore buttocks, offers a couple firm pats, and then walks away. He hears soft footfalls through the room, and moments later he hears the click of a bottle, the swish of velvet robes. He wonders what his Consort is wearing under that robe. Nothing at all? His cock twitches slightly at the thought, at the memory of the man’s soft skin against his own.

A set of fingers open up his mouth, followed by the tip of a cock. “That’s right, my pet king,” drawls his Consort’s voice, husky with desire. “I have the only right to you, and I am going to claim you for my own.”

Thorin moans around his Consort’s cock. It’d be too easy to come just at hearing such delightful words, but he knows he must obey. Diligently he begins to suck, fingers and toes curling into the rug with delight as he hears the soft grunts of his Consort, feels the curling of the man’s fingers in his hair. He’s pleasing his beloved, the one who has claimed him so thoroughly, and that’s what matters most.

“That’s enough,” his Consort declares after a moment. “Would you like me to fuck you, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” says Thorin. The stinging has gone now, leaving a strangely pleasant warmth.

A firm slap to his other cheek. “What do we say when we want something?”

“Please,” Thorin moans.

“Very good.” The click of a bottle. Then two fingers, slick with lube, slip inside him, scissoring, loosening, opening him. The crinkle of a wrapper. Thorin moans again, wriggling in his bonds with anticipation.

His Consort fills him like nothing else ever could, and Thorin bites his lips and tries to think of things that would delay his own orgasm. But it feels inevitable, inexorable — he’s been set alight by the very presence of his Consort, and the sweetness of the punishment he gave — he knows he can’t last much longer.

“Please,” he whimpers.

“Please what?” His Consort’s voice is hoarse with his own pleasure.

“Please let me come.”

“Patience is a virtue of kings, Your Majesty,” retorts his Consort. “You must wait a while longer.”

Thorin hums in disappointment. He knows he can’t; he’s impatient with want and the pleasure only mounts with each thrust of his Consort’s cock inside him. He digs his fingers into the rug, gasping, moaning, feeling his beloved’s fingers dig crescents into his hip.

With one more thrust his Consort comes at last, and Thorin knows he’s following behind. “Please,” he repeats.

He feels his Consort’s lips against his shoulder, feels his Consort’s hands against his cock.

“Have you learnt your lesson?” his Consort whispers against his skin.

“Yes!” Thorin cries out. “ _Please_!”

“Then you may come,” says his Consort, and Thorin comes into his hand, and it is the most exquisite undoing he has ever felt.

A hand plucks the blindfold from his face, and Thorin looks up into gentle hazel eyes.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Bilbo Baggins whispers, dropping the Consort act as he wipes his hands on a towel, so that he can cup Thorin’s face and press soft kisses everywhere. “Here, let me get you out of these bonds. You must be so weary.”

Thorin smiles, albeit shakily. “You were so intense,” he admits.

“Roleplaying’s firmly in my yes list for a reason,” says Bilbo with a twinkle in his eyes. “Now come, let me fix you a cup of tea and something to eat, and we can cuddle all of your cares away. Did you want to watch a movie?”

Thorin’s smile broadens. “What do you have?”


	2. Seven Months Earlier

_Seven Months Earlier_

Bag End is an innocuous little store tucked down a side street in London. Its sign is a cheery green with yellow lettering: Bag End Toys and Pleasures, and the windows are tastefully curtained off to deter underage visitors.

Frankly, Thorin Oakenshield is quite embarrassed about stepping into this store, given that it’s his first time shopping at such a place. But the inside is brightly lit and cheerily decorated, with soft tones of green and yellow on the walls and rich hardwood flooring. It’s the last kind of setting you’d expect for a sex toy store, and yet here it is.

The shelves are piled with toys, separated by type, arranged in order of cost. The first thing he sees as the bell on the door tinkles behind him is the giant display of condoms and lube along the back wall. Then, veering to the right, shelves of vibrators, shelves of dildos, shelves of butt plugs. He can feel his face heating up just looking at everything.

“Hello, and welcome to Bag End! I’m Bilbo Baggins, the owner of this store; how can I help you?”

That greeting comes from the last kind of person Thorin would’ve expected to be working in a sex toy store. Bilbo Baggins is innocuous and cute with glasses perched on a button nose, a tousled mop of golden curls on his head, and the fashion sense of a socially-inept professor. Thorin feels his heartbeat quickening just at the sight of him.

“I…” he begins, trailing off. “It’s my first time,” he blurts. His sister Dís had, in a conversation that was full of more information than he’d cared to have, recommended this store to him, saying that it’d helped her and Vili’s relationship quite wonderfully. Thorin had then cut her off before she went into any detail about her purchases from Bag End.

“Your first time,” echoes Bilbo.

“That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to,” Thorin admits. “I mean, I’m not a stranger to...I’ve actually — It’s my first time in this store.”

“Ah.” Bilbo smiles beatifically. “Would you like me to give you a tour?”

Thorin nods, and Bilbo gestures for him to follow.

* * *

“And here we have our collection of anal play toys, including butt plugs and beads. What differentiates toys specifically made for anal play from others is that there should be a flared base to prevent the toy from getting lost.”

“Have people actually had that happen to them?” Thorin wonders, staring at the wide variety of plugs and beads and dildos on the shelves.

Bilbo laughs. “You’d be surprised. With vaginas, the cervix prevent toys from getting too far up the body. With the rectum, well, the next thing that comes up is the colon, and the rest of your digestive tract. Things are _quite_ capable of getting lost in there.”

“Sounds painful.”

“And embarrassing to explain to the folks in A&E,” agrees Bilbo.

 _How does he do it_? Thorin wonders. _He must talk about this stuff often enough that it doesn’t faze him anymore_. But Thorin’s face is just heating up at the thought of using any of these things on himself or a potential partner. It also doesn’t help that a part of him wonders if this innocent-looking store owner uses any of these products.

“What got you interested in all of this?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, and if he’s sure he couldn’t have gone any redder before, he’s definitely proved himself wrong now. Bilbo raises an eyebrow, as if asking for clarification. “What got you to open this shop?” Thorin clarifies.

Bilbo smiles. “Safety,” he replies simply. “Where I come from, people were fed a lot of misconceptions about sex and were not protecting themselves. I wanted to educate people, and to make sure they were as safe as possible while having sex.”

Thorin’s not sure why he finds it so hard to breathe, or why his heart is pounding so ferociously inside his chest. He smiles tightly, and looks at the anal toy display again.

“Shall we move on? Or is there something specific you were hoping to see?” asks Bilbo patiently.

“Something specific?” echoes Thorin.

“Did you come here for something specific in mind? I’m sorry, I should’ve asked about that up front. Are you here shopping for yourself, for a partner, or for both?”

“Oh,” says Thorin, and he chuckles, embarrassed. “No, I’m just...I don’t have a partner. I was just curious, and your store came recommended.”

“Ah, excellent.” Bilbo’s hazel eyes twinkle. “And what are you curious about?”

Thorin shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve spent a lot of my life not really thinking about this stuff. I’ve had relationships with sex involved, yes, but...it was always just an act to get over and done with. I never really paid that much attention to what I wanted or liked about...all of this.”

Bilbo nods. “I see. Are you still comfortable with me giving you a tour, or should I let you wander and discover things for yourself?”

“Oh no! By all means, please, show me more.” It all comes out of Thorin’s mouth in a rush of words. There aren’t many things he’s certain about, not when he’s standing in such unfamiliar territory, but he knows one thing — he wants to spend a little more time with Bilbo.

* * *

And Bilbo shows him more. He leads him through the dildo and vibrator sections, pointing out things like strap-on friendly dildos, packing dildos, discreet bullet vibrators, and even remote-controlled vibrators.

“These things are fun,” Bilbo says, holding one of the remote-controlled vibrators with a grin. “You can activate them a room away. Imagine that you’re sitting down to dinner with your irritating conservative aunt, and your partner’s outside the door controlling the vibrator in your pants. Your aunt would never know.”

Thorin laughs, feeling his ears burn at the mental image, and at the thought of Bilbo doing the controlling.

Bilbo leads him on, past the counter and through the tables in the middle of the room, piled with gift baskets, massage oils, body icing, and other things for foreplay. Thorin briefly flicks through a book of naughty striptease ideas. The blush starts to diminish somewhat by the time he gets to the sexy foreplay dice. It’s completely gone by the time Bilbo’s covering cock rings and fleshlights, and the wall of safer sex supplies.

“I have this wall as the first thing you see when you enter the shop specifically so that people are reminded to stay safe,” Bilbo says, gesturing to the extremely impressive condom lineup. There are so many brands, so many designs. “Sexually transmitted infections can be prevented through barrier methods like condoms and dental dams, and enough lube applied to either of them means you could easily pretend they’re not even there.”

“Dental dams?” echoes Thorin, frowning. “People use those?”

“They’re _very_ handy,” replies Bilbo. “Rimming, cunnilingus — anything involving oral sex and an orifice. There are more things to barrier protection than just condoms, after all. Finger cots, gloves, I’ve got latex and polyurethane everything. There’s no excuse not to protect yourself.”

Thorin chuckles, turning his attention to the lubes instead. “I did hear, at least, that you’re not supposed to mix some types of lubes with condoms.”

“Nothing silicone with silicone-based lube, and oil-based lube should probably just be used for massaging,” replies Bilbo, smiling at him. “And of course, nothing flavoured inside your body, especially if you happen to bear a vagina.”

“I don’t,” says Thorin.

“Still good to know, if you get a partner with one.” Bilbo steps away from the wall. “Come on, let’s continue.”

* * *

They pass through a small nook filled with books. One shelf is dedicated to erotica, the other to how-to guides. Thorin briefly glances at the titles of the erotic novels before Bilbo leads him into the room beyond, and then the blushing is back.

Restraints, floggers, paddles, crops. Most things seem to be in some form of leather, with or without lace and silk detailing. Thorin looks around the room, and feels a strange shiver of excitement run up and down his spine as he looks at all of the contraptions.

“What’s all of this for?” he asks.

“BDSM,” replies Bilbo matter-of-factly, picking up one of the crops and running a hand along its tip. “Bondage and discipline, domination and submission, sadism and masochism.”

“Oh,” says Thorin. “People are into that?”

“Oh, _definitely_.” Bilbo smiles at him. “There’s a lot more to BDSM than just tying people up and spanking them, you know. It’s mostly just a much more intense way to experience heightened physical sensations. People experiment here, like they do with more vanilla forms of sex. They explore their boundaries, get in touch with the sensations they like and understand the ones they don’t.”

“What about the dominance and submission part?”

“Sometimes people who participate in this lifestyle like a little power play,” replies Bilbo, putting the crop back on the shelf. “Whether it be in giving sensations or feeling them, or alternating those roles, people get quite creative in how they choose to label these dynamics, and how they inhabit their roles.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Thorin remarks.

“I’m particularly adamant about debunking the common misconceptions about this lifestyle,” replies Bilbo cheerily. “Though, I will admit I have had first-hand experience.”

“Really.”

“There’s really nothing quite like it.”

“I wouldn’t have, uh, thought you were...” Thorin’s blushing harder now.

“We come from so many different places,” says Bilbo with a small smile. “And I suppose I’ve always had a bit of an adventurous streak.”

“Does certainly explain all of this,” replies Thorin, gesturing to the room. Bilbo chuckles. For a long, breathless moment, Thorin stares into the man’s earnest hazel eyes, and contents himself with thoughts of drowning in them.

The bell at the front door rings, breaking the spell. “Oh, another customer,” murmurs Bilbo. In a louder voice, he adds, “I’ll take care of them. Please call if you need anything!”

And before Thorin can react, he bustles away.

* * *

Thorin eventually makes his way to the counter with a couple of books in his hands. Bilbo regards them with an appraising eye as he runs up the total.

“The _New Bottoming_ and _Topping_ books?” he asks.

“I’m...well.” Thorin shrugs as he hands over his credit card. “Just...testing the waters, I guess.”

“Good, good.” Bilbo smiles, puts the books in a brown paper bag for him. “I hope you enjoy reading them.”

“I hope so, too,” replies Thorin, mostly because he’s not sure what else to say. With the books in his arms, he leaves the store with the sound of the bells jingling behind him.

It’s only when he gets home and opens up the package that he notices that Bilbo has slipped his card into his copy of the _New Bottoming Book_ , with a circle drawn around his phone number and a smiley face.

Thorin laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the rather pedantic-sounding everything; I wanted to get all of the basics out in the open before we get into the even more fun parts.


	3. Tea Talks

He dreams of sensations, of a soft yet sure hand ghosting over his skin, of soft lips against his own, of the slow tangling of fingers in his hair. He dreams of golden curls falling into his eyes, of hazel eyes darkened with arousal. He dreams of being restrained, bound to his bed spread-eagled and helpless, surrendering himself to pleasure and letting himself lie adrift in sensation. He dreams of pain and pleasure in equal measure, of the sweet torture of biting kisses and stinging caresses.

He wakes in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright in the middle of his too-large bed in his too-empty bedroom. With a groan, Thorin shuffles out of his bed and pads blearily into the ensuite bathroom. Perhaps a cold shower will chase these thoughts out of his head.

It’s been almost a week since he first visited Bag End. He’s gone through both of the books he bought, and it’s only added fuel to his fantasies. So much that he’s repressed before has come tumbling out in his dreams, most of which nowadays seem to feature a very innocuous somebody. He’d almost curse his weakness, if he wasn’t so fascinated by the contents of his dreams.

The cold water sends a shock through his body. Thorin leans his forehead heavily against the glass wall, letting the water rinse him clean. The dream fades, mutes its colours and sensations. Thorin closes his eyes, clinging onto the rush that is being with Bilbo and listening to him speak.

That’s when he remembers the card.

* * *

“G’morning.” The voice on the other end of the phone is rough with sleep. Thorin feels a rush throughout his body.

“Morning,” says Thorin.

“Oh, it’s you! The customer from last week, right? I don’t think I caught your name last time.”

“Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Nice to hear from you.” Bilbo’s voice loses a bit of its roughness. Thorin almost misses it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being woken up at four in the morning on a Saturday?”

“I was...I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight,” says Thorin, and he’s glad Bilbo can’t see him blushing over the phone.

A pause, and then soft laughter. “Yes, I’m free,” says Bilbo. “Though that does depend on when you have dinner. I tend to leave Bag End at five in the evening.”

“I was thinking around that time,” says Thorin. “Any dietary restrictions?”

“None whatsoever,” replies Bilbo. “And I don’t have a preference for restaurants, either.”

“I’ll take care of that,” says Thorin. “Where shall we meet?”

“Outside Bag End?” suggests Bilbo.

“Fine with me.”

“Good.” He can hear a little breathy huff of laughter. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” agrees Thorin, and hangs up. God, even Bilbo’s voice sounds adorable. He really is in for it.

* * *

Thorin spends Saturday occupied with thoughts of five o’clock, and dinner with Bilbo Baggins.

It comes much faster than he hopes or fears. At five, Thorin is dressed in a button-down and slacks and waiting outside Bag End. Bilbo greets him then, still arrayed like an eccentric professor, though tonight he’s added a bowtie to the mix.

Thorin still can’t quite wrap his head around the idea that this man exists. This wonderful, contradictory, deceptively adventurous man exists, and Thorin Oakenshield is going to dinner with him.

“I have a reservation for a nearby restaurant run by a friend of mine,” he says by way of greeting. “I hope you like seafood.”

“Can’t get enough of it,” says Bilbo good-naturedly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

* * *

And really, he can’t. Because Bilbo had completely forgotten to tell him at four in the morning that he was allergic to shellfish.

“I am so sorry; it completely escaped my mind — you called me at four, remember? And most of my brain hadn’t been turned on then. Seriously, I’m very sorry.” Bilbo’s cheeks are flushed an appealing shade of pink as the servers set down a much more harmless filet of salmon in front of him.

Thorin is wondering if it’s possible to sink into the earth and disappear, so caught up between arousal and embarrassment as he is now. After Bilbo had revealed this accidental oversight, Thorin had quickly asked the servers to cancel their orders of the usual scallop and lobster dishes and replace them with something that might not send his date scrambling for A&E. And so now, they are both digging into the salmon without much incident, and Bilbo’s apologies are too flustered and adorable for Thorin to handle.

“You really didn’t have to cancel your own order, seriously. I won’t die on you just by looking at shellfish, I swear. I’m doing just fine being in the same room as them, after all.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin insists, perhaps a little too gruffly, because Bilbo subsides in his seat, the tips of his ears bright pink. Thorin clenches his fork a little tighter; he really has no business melting every time he sees Bilbo blushing.

They eat in silence for a moment, and then Bilbo pipes up again.

“I’m really sorry about the miscommunication,” he says.

“There’s no need — you’ve already apologised,” replies Thorin.

“It’s really quite unacceptable. In my relationships, communication is paramount.”

“Your relationships?” echoes Thorin, feeling his heart sink a little.

“I’m not in any relationship or arrangement presently,” Bilbo clarifies, and Thorin lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “But my previous relationships, especially those involving BDSM, usually involved a great deal of communication.” He pauses. “It’s a lot more risky than your typical vanilla relationship, after all. Anything can go wrong.”

“Has something gone wrong before?” asks Thorin, out of morbid curiosity if nothing else.

“Well, there was this one time when the fire alarm went off the middle of a scene, and I’d completely forgotten to bring the safety scissors,” replies Bilbo with a wry chuckle. “ _That_ brought up some interesting questions from the neighbours.”

Thorin laughs quietly. “Must have been interesting.”

“Oh, definitely. Now I can’t leave the house without my scissors.” Bilbo leans back in his chair, smiling. The dim lighting of the restaurant casts a warm glow to his face, and Thorin feels a shiver run down his spine as he looks at him.

“Um,” he says, and he’s sure he’s supposed to say more, but the words don’t come. Bilbo raises an eyebrow. Thorin shuffles a little in his seat and then smiles.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come over to my place for a cuppa after dinner,” he says a moment later, and Bilbo’s own smile mirrors his.

* * *

Thorin lives in the penthouse of the Lonely Mountain, a new luxury apartment building near the Belgravia district. He keeps the place minimalistically furnished, an aesthetic that has the unfortunate side-effect of making everything feel desolate and sterile.

“You could use some more plant life,” Bilbo muses as he wanders through the living room area to the dining area and kitchen. “I’m sure it’ll be a welcome addition to this flat. You’ve got all the potential sunlight from these floor-to-ceiling windows for it.”

“I’ll think about it,” replies Thorin as he pulls out a seat at the kitchen counter for him. Bilbo takes a seat on the tall stool, watching him bustle around with the kettle.

“Do you need help?”

Thorin opens a cabinet. “What kind of tea do you drink?”

“Earl Grey with milk and honey, though I shouldn’t get something caffeinated at this hour. I’d like to get to bed on time.” He chuckles a little as he says that, and Thorin rummages around in his tea collection for something suitable.

“Would you like some white tea? My brother-in-law brought some back from China last month on a business trip.”

Bilbo takes the bag and opens it, sniffing gingerly. “Is that Silver Needle?” he asks.

“I think so?”

“It smells wonderful. I’ll have a mug.”

Moments later, both of them are sitting at the kitchen counter with mugs of tea. Bilbo seems more content to inhale his tea than actually drink it. It makes butterflies erupt in Thorin’s stomach, watching the man viscerally enjoy his tea without even drinking it.

“So,” he says, after a long moment of relatively comfortable silence.

“So,” agrees Bilbo, opening his eyes, which had previously been closed in bliss. Thorin swallows. It’s hard to keep his thoughts straight when confronted with Bilbo’s mesmerising eyes.

“I read the books,” says Thorin. It comes out much clunkier than he would have liked.

“What did you think of them?”

“This entire week, I…” Thorin coughs lightly, feeling the blushes return. “This entire week, I’ve thought of nothing else but this. Of you.”

Bilbo smiles, and slowly raises the mug to his lips, tongue running along the edges. Thorin’s knuckles whiten around his own cup. How does every single action of Bilbo’s send jolts of warmth and arousal coursing through his body?

He watches, breathless, as Bilbo takes a sip of tea and sets the cup down, and then trails his fingers along the counter until they brush against Thorin’s. Thorin closes his eyes then, taking deeper breaths to try and slow down his racing heart.

“Are you sure a relationship with me is what you want?” Bilbo asks quietly.

Thorin says nothing, revelling in the sensation of Bilbo’s hand lightly covering his.

“Think about it. I’m not going to make you do anything without your full consent, and that includes entering the relationship at all.”

“I know I want to be with you,” says Thorin, his voice quiet and hoarse as he opens his eyes and looks at Bilbo directly. “I know that what you do in a...in a BDSM relationship...is more intense than...than a normal one. And I’m curious about it. You could even say that I’ve got a bit of an adventurous streak, too.”

Bilbo laughs. “That’s good,” he says. “A willingness to try something new is good. But I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I…” he trails off, frowning slightly. “I should’ve brought the list.”

“The list?”

“I have this list of, uh, all the potential things we could do. It’s a good way to set our boundaries, figure out what we’re both into, that sort of thing.”

“What if I don’t know if I want to do something?”

“There are different types of limits you can set,” replies Bilbo with a gentle smile. “Hard limits are things that you absolutely don't want to do, and soft limits are things that you’re uncomfortable with or that simply just don’t turn you on. Whatever the case, once we set those limits, we’ll make sure not to cross them. At least, not until you want to renegotiate your limits.”

Thorin exhales.

“And, of course, we’ll set up safewords so you’ll be free to stop anything that makes you uncomfortable.” Bilbo squeezes his hand gently, and then retracts it to pick up his mug again. Thorin feels all too keenly the tingling from where the man had touched his hand, and he folds them in his lap as he watches Bilbo take another sip of the tea.

“So, you’re interested in me?” asks Thorin, for clarification if nothing else. “Even though I...I’m not experienced in any of this?”

Bilbo says nothing at first. But then he blurts out, “Do you mind if I kiss you?”

Thorin blinks.

“Er, no, if you want. Why?”

Bilbo sets down the mug and cups the side of Thorin’s face, then, and leans in and upwards to press a kiss to his lips.

Thorin’s eyes flutter closed again. Kissing Bilbo is even better than what he’d dreamt of. Soft lips pressed firmly against his own, a slightly calloused thumb stroking his cheek, the soft musk of Bilbo’s aftershave — it all makes Thorin dizzy with arousal. He wants more. He wants everything Bilbo could give him, even if it means crawling on his hands and knees and begging for it. If kisses from Bilbo could make him lose his mind, he’d hate to see what sex with Bilbo would do to him.

“Your lips are magical,” Bilbo breathes when they break apart, and it takes all of Thorin’s self-restraint not to pounce the man right then and there.

“I want more,” he murmurs instead.

“In good time,” replies Bilbo, still breathless. He peppers gentle kisses around Thorin’s mouth.

“How do you define that?”

“Not tonight, at least. But perhaps next time. I’ll bring you the list, we’ll go through it, start off easy and move from there.” The man laughs a little, and even his laughter makes Thorin’s heart stutter a little faster. “I’m only going off what’s worked for me before; there’s no set way to do all of this. Every relationship is a new adventure, a series of new discoveries in store.”

He takes Thorin’s hands and squeezes them gently, reassuringly.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy discovering new things about yourself.”

Thorin smiles as well. “I look forward to it.”

“Good.” Bilbo kisses him once more. “And next time, please don’t ask me what my dietary restrictions are at four in the morning.”

Thorin laughs sheepishly. “I’ll remember not to take you to Bofur’s, then.”

“I actually liked the salmon, though.” Bilbo grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But it’s always good to try new places.”

“And new things,” agrees Thorin, and when Bilbo kisses him one last time he quickly realises that he’s never going to get used to this wonderful man.

And that he’s excited to figure out what other surprises Bilbo has in store.


	4. King and Consort

His sister Dís checks in on him the next morning, her little four-year-old Fíli following after her like an imprinted duckling. Thorin spins the boy around, marvelling at how much he’s grown.

“Soon, you’re going to be too big for me to lift!” he exclaims as he plops Fíli down onto the couch next to his mother, who is already five months along in her pregnancy.

“Víli’s been getting back into the habit of rubbing cocoa butter on my belly and feeding me peanut butter and pickle sandwiches,” Dís announces as Thorin pours Fíli a cup of apple juice.

Fíli wrinkles his nose at the mere memory. “That stuff is gross, Mum,” he says.

“You’re not the one eating it.”

“It was gross,” declares Fíli, crossing his arms. “Why’d you gotta eat it?”

“The baby is making me,” replies Dís matter-of-factly.

“Tell the baby to stop it.” Fíli pouts, and finishes up his cup of juice. “It stinks up the house. I hate pickles.”

“What about peanut butter crackers?” asks Thorin. “You still like those, don’t you?”

“Yeah!” Fíli brightens up, bouncing on the couch. Dís groans loudly. “You got peanut butter crackers, Uncle Thorin?”

“I can make you a plateful if you get your shoes off my couch,” offers Thorin, and Fíli readily acquiesces, sliding down the sofa until his shoes are dangling off the edge. Thorin chuckles.

“So, did you take my advice?” Dís asks as Thorin doles out a giant spoonful of peanut butter onto a plate, next to a stack of Ritz crackers.

“Are you sure you want your son in the room?” asks Thorin in response.

Dís’s eyebrows shoot up. “You visited the shop!”

“Yeah.” Thorin sets the plate down on the coffee table. Fíli launches himself at the snack and starts digging in.

“What’d you get?”

“A couple of books.”

Dís scoffs. “Of course you would. An entire shop full of toys, and you get the books.”

“They were very good books,” Thorin replies, feeling his cheeks flare up. He takes a seat in the armchair opposite her.

“I think it’s adorable,” replies Dís with a wicked grin. “You always were more bookish than you let on.”

Thorin’s blushing intensifies. “Well, I also got something else,” he admits, “but I didn’t really pay for it. I mean, I did, but not _there_ , I paid for it later —”

“Get to the point.”

“I got a partner.” Pause. “I think. I mean, we still need to work things out, but...I have a partner. Maybe. Possibly. I hope so.”

Dís grins. “See? I told you it’d work out. What’s his name?”

“Uh.” Thorin laughs sheepishly. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“The _shop owner_?” Dís’s eyes are wide. “I didn’t know he —”

“Yeah, he’s, uh, he’s…” Thorin trails off, shrugging. “He’s great. We went to dinner, had some tea afterwards.”

“Does he use the products he sells?” asks Dís with a sly grin. “Heck, could you convince him to give me a discount?”

“Aren’t you pregnant?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t have some me time,” snaps Dís, waggling a finger at him. Thorin shakes his head.

“Maybe I’ll slip it into the negotiations,” he says, and she laughs.

“Negotiations? Thorin, dear, you do realise you’re in a sexual relationship with this man, not a business merger, right?”

“He believes that negotiation is extremely important in a relationship,” replies Thorin, shrugging. “And it’s for our safety and comfort, so I’m not complaining.”

Dís raises an eyebrow. “Very meticulous of him. I’m not surprised; Mr Baggins is very adamant about safety. When we visited, he gave us a demonstration on the proper usage of a dental dam. Víli swears by those now; I think he just likes having the opportunity to make my vagina taste like strawberries.”

Thorin looks over at Fíli, who seems intent on making a seven-story Ritz cracker and peanut butter sandwich, and is hopefully quite oblivious to what they’re talking about.

“Though,” Dís continues, causing Thorin to look at her again, “you mentioned something about safety and comfort. Are you doing something...risky with him? Like, BDSM or something?” Her voice is hesitant.

Thorin nods. Dís whistles.

“Wow. Didn’t know Mr Baggins was into that sort of stuff.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it, either.”

“I’m trying to imagine him in leather and latex and all I’m getting is a hilarious mental image.”

Thorin doesn’t even want to touch that mental image. He’s sure he’ll be thinking something entirely different about them.

Dís grins at his reddened face. “Tell me, is it like it is in the books by A. G. Defiler?”

Thorin makes a face. “No.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’ve only kissed.”

“Huh.”

“Are you disappointed that Bilbo didn’t, what, _ravish_ me on the first date?”

Dís giggles. “You didn’t have to phrase it like that. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually want the mental image of my brother as a swooning damsel on the front cover of a paperback romance novel.”

“You did sound like you were trying to live vicariously through me, though,” Thorin points out. “Just because I’ve got the prospect of having a more interesting personal life than you —”

“Excuse me! _Who_ was the one who first put you in contact with Mr Baggins?”

Thorin shakes his head. “Are you trying to claim credit for this?”

She winks at him. “Well, if you’re not going to get me the discount, then I’ll go do it myself!”

* * *

In the evening, Thorin gets a phone call from Bilbo as he’s clearing up after dinner.

“Is this a good time?” Bilbo’s voice is almost hesitant. Thorin chuckles.

“It’s fine. I’m about to finish reading some reports for work tomorrow, but I don’t want to bore you with that stuff.”

Bilbo hums a little. Thorin’s heart races. “Where do you work?” Bilbo asks after a moment, evidently curious.

“Erebor Engineering,” replies Thorin. “I’m Managing Director.”

There’s a low whistle from the other end. “I didn’t know that,” admits Bilbo. “Though, I _did_ suspect that you had money. I mean, look at your flat and where it’s located and everything!”

“It’s the family business,” says Thorin. He strides from the kitchen to his den, where his laptop glares at him in the dark with all the reports that he still has to read. “Anyway, I’m fairly certain you didn’t call to ask me about my work.”

“No, I didn’t. That got away from me, sorry.” Bilbo laughs. “I’m calling about dinner.”

“Ah.” Thorin takes a seat in his leather swivel chair. He hums in thought as he turns on the lamp and skims through his planner. “When are you free?”

Bilbo hums again, sending shivers down Thorin’s spine. “Probably not weeknights, I imagine, in case we get carried away.”

Thorin chuckles. Carried away is exactly what he’s hoping for. “I’m usually not expected at the office until ten in the morning,” he points out.

“I open up shop much earlier than that,” replies Bilbo. “And on Tuesday nights I go out for drinks with some mates from uni, so that’s out. On Thursdays I usually go to Surrey to have dinner with my cousin and her husband, so that’s out, too.”

Thorin finds himself jotting down these notes into his own planner. It thrills him, having these little concrete details about Bilbo’s life slotted right up against his own.

“Are you free Friday?” asks Thorin. “I make it a point to leave Friday open.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” says Bilbo. Thorin grins.

“Did you have any particular places you wanted to go?” he asks.

“Oh god,” says Bilbo, almost breathlessly, and that’s it, _that’s_ what’s making Thorin’s trousers so tight.

He bites his lip to prevent the groan from escaping.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo murmurs after a moment. Thorin closes his eyes and exhales, slowly, trying to calm his body down. “I trust your judgement, though. Just…no shellfish, okay?”

“Duly noted,” agrees Thorin, his voice coming out a little too rough for his own liking.

Another pause. “Are you okay?” asks Bilbo.

“I’m…” Thorin coughs, opening his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Your voice is a little odd,” Bilbo notes.

“I can’t help it,” grumbles Thorin. “There’s something about your voice, even over the phone, it…” he trails off, muffling another groan, because Bilbo has just made a small ‘ahh’ing noise, and it is doing strange things to what’s left of his self composure (and possibly his dignity).

“You’re aroused.” Bilbo’s very blunt about it, which Thorin appreciates.

“Yes,” he grinds out. “Very.”

Another pause. “Do you want some help with that?”

Thorin’s only response is a moan.

“That’s not a suitable response, Thorin, I’d like it in words, please.”

“Yes,” groans Thorin, eyes closing again. “Please.”

“Jumping the shark a little, aren’t we?”

“ _Please_ ,” insists Thorin.

A huff of laughter over the phone. After a moment, Bilbo clears his throat and speaks up again.

“Are you touching yourself?” His voice is a soft, sensual whisper. Thorin exhales, slowly, raggedly, propping the phone up with his shoulder as his hands unfasten his belt and the fly of his trousers. One hand briefly brushes against his hardened cock.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Bilbo gives a satisfied hum. Thorin can feel his face heating up. He wonders what Bilbo’s doing on the other end. Is he at home? In public? In his shop, closing up the till?

“A-Are you alone?” he asks quietly.

“Yes. I’m in my sitting room, in my favourite armchair, with my tea right next to me. It’s a very fine Earl Grey; I wish you were here to smell it.”

“I wish you were _here_ ,” groans Thorin, his fingers lazily stroking his cock as he tries to imagine the smell of Bilbo’s Earl Grey.  

“As do I. What about you, hm? Where are you?”

“My office. In my flat, but...”

Bilbo chuckles. “Hasn’t anyone told you not to mix business and pleasure?” A brief pause. “Can I safely assume you’re in a collared shirt and trousers?”

“Yes,” breathes Thorin.

“Good. I’m here with you, Thorin. I’m unbuttoning your shirt, slowly, running my hands and lips along your collarbone, trailing my fingers and tongue after every new inch of skin exposed with each new loosened button. Can you feel it?”

Thorin moans a little louder as his fingers follow Bilbo’s instructions. He leans heavily against the chair, head tilted at an awkward angle to keep Bilbo’s voice close to his ear. He’ll regret that later.

“Now I’m reaching into your trousers,” murmurs Bilbo, “and I’m stroking your cock, running my thumb along the tip. Can you feel that?”

His hands obey what that sinful voice suggests, and _god_ , does it feel good. He can’t remember for the life of him the last time he paid this much attention to himself; jerking off had often just been something perfunctory, something done with a little assistance from porn and a lot of tissues. And of course, he’s never really done this with someone so close and yet so far.

“My strokes are a little faster now; my hand is firmly around your cock,” Bilbo murmurs, and Thorin can almost imagine that the man is actually there, actually touching him, actually whispering these things into his ear. “Is that what you like, hm? Do you want more of it?”

Thorin bites a knuckle to prevent himself from making even more undignified noises. Bilbo hums again. A small whine escapes Thorin’s lips.

“I’m moving slightly slower now, running the palm of my other hand around the head of your cock as I do so.”

“Oh _god_ ,” groans Thorin, eyes closed, head tilted back, flush with sensation. He knows he’s not going to last much longer. “I...I’m close, I think —”

“Shh,” murmurs Bilbo, the huskiness in his voice sending shivers down Thorin’s spine. “Come when you’re ready.”

And Thorin does, falling over the edge with a shudder and a sigh, contented and limp and warm in his office chair. “Bilbo,” he murmurs after a moment, once his heartbeat isn’t hammering inside his chest with adrenaline.

“Yeah?” asks Bilbo, and his voice sounds a little strained as well.

“Thank you,” whispers Thorin.

There’s a wry chuckle on the other end. “Shall I put you down as a ‘yes’ for phone sex on my list?” Bilbo teases.

“Oh, _please_.” Thorin then clears his throat, opens his eyes, looks around him. In a more rational voice he adds, “so, should I get you at Bag End on Friday, then?”

“Yes. Same time?”

“Yes,” agrees Thorin. “I...I’ll see you then.”

He hangs up, and starts looking around for tissues.

* * *

The week seems to snail on from there to Friday. Work is tedious, of course, but necessary. He revises the reports, attends meetings with his employees, makes a presentation for the rest of the corporate board. There are small respites, of course; he gets to have lunch with Dís on Wednesday, and he gets to take Fíli out to the park for ice-cream on Thursday. And when Friday does roll around, Thorin is a giant mixture of excited and anxious.

He excuses himself from work a little earlier to avoid the Tube rush, and soon is outside Bag End at five once more, tugging nervously at his tie and running a hand through his hair. He’s half-tempted to go check for grey hairs; Dís had implied that she found one the other day.

Bilbo doesn’t immediately notice Thorin when he steps out of Bag End, as he’s busy talking to someone in the store. But Thorin’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of the man, and his cheeks heat up at the memory of their last interaction. Bilbo turns around, hazel eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“Thorin!” he exclaims, and Thorin smiles sheepishly, hefting his briefcase from one hand to the other. Standing close to Bilbo feels like coming home, feels like security and freedom at the same time. He offers his hand, and Bilbo takes it with a grin, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Where are we going this time?” he asks.

* * *

Thorin takes them to a cosy little café this time, one with live music and friendly servers and a distinct lack of shellfish on the menu. Halfway through a sandwich, he feels another hand covering his own under the table.

He squeezes back, and Bilbo smiles at him, eyes twinkling.

“So, how was the… uh, encounter last Sunday?” the man asks.

Thorin nods. “I liked it.”

“You did?” echoes Bilbo. Thorin nods. Bilbo’s smile grows a little wider. “That’s a relief. I’m not as well-versed in that sort of thing as I should be.”

“You did well,” replies Thorin, shrugging.

Bilbo chuckles, and then reaches into his satchel and fumbles around.

“I brought the list,” he says, “as well as a negotiation form. Contract. Thing.” He shrugs. “We can work that out somewhere not as public, of course. The list, though, might be something we could go through here without it being too much of a problem.”

The list is printed on paper, and Bilbo’s brought pens to fill it out. It’s a table listing several fantasies, with two more columns for them to respond to each fantasy.

“We can fill it out together or separately,” Bilbo says with a small shrug. “Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

“Could I do it separately?” asks Thorin, and Bilbo pushes the list towards him with a smile.

“Rank everything on the list from a scale of ‘no’ to five,” he instructs. “‘No’ means no, obviously, zero means you don’t like it, but you could do it. One means you’re not interested or you have no idea what it is, but either way you’re willing to try. Two means mildly interested, three means you’d like to do it, four means you like it, and five or ‘yes’ means you love it a lot and would like to do it often.” He pauses. “Is that fine with you?”

Thorin nods, takes a look down the list. It’s remarkable how many things people have come up with to express their sexuality. There’s the basics, of course, like massages, lap dances, mirrors, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, using toys — and then there are some things that he’s never heard of.

“Wax play?” he echoes.

“Candles,” replies Bilbo. “Made out of soy or paraffin; they’ve got a low melting point so it’s not too dangerous. Some people like to play with sensation and temperature.”

Thorin nods, putting down a hesitant two on the list, and continuing.

There are even more things he’s never heard of as the list continues into kinkier and kinkier things, and Thorin finds himself blushing harder and harder as it progresses.

“What’s the difference between a regular slave and a Gorean slave?” he asks suddenly.

“Gorean slaves adopt a series of specific mannerisms and habits from a specific science-fiction series,” Bilbo replies neutrally, his eyes fixed on the musicians performing a couple tables away. Thorin nods, returning to the form.

He’s not particularly comfortable with some of the things that might involve other people, or public humiliation; in fact, he’s actually quite blown away by the amount of things that can be done to humiliate someone. Serving as art, skinny dipping, bukkake, sex in public or semi-public places — some of these things do intrigue him, others are things he’s fairly certain he’d only be able to do much later on. If there is a later. Which he does hope there will be.

He continues down the list. “Golden showers?” Thorin mutters. “People...are into that?”

“Yeah,” replies Bilbo, shrugging. “Some people have a fetish for these sorts of things. It’s not nice to yuck their yum.”

Thorin hums, moving onto the next section. Things involving other bodily substances aren’t precisely his cup of tea at the present, but he’s resolved to keep an open mind about it.

The next section is about roleplaying and the various forms that it could take — and there are _so_ many. Priests, maids, nurses, prisoners, prostitutes, butlers, bodyguards — the list goes on and on. For the most part, he’s interested. And then —

“Consentplay?” he asks.

“Some people have those kinds of fantasies,” says Bilbo, and there’s a slight edge to his voice in that. Thorin frowns slightly.

“Really,” he says.

Bilbo nods, looking down at the table. Thorin swallows.

“Have you...done that before?”

Bilbo nods again. “The usual safewords should be in place,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “That is, all the usual ones except ‘no’.”

“I see,” Thorin looks at the list. “You don’t sound like you like this sort of thing.”

“I’m trying not to prejudice you against anything,” replies Bilbo, though his smile is slightly strained. Thorin nods, eyes narrowing slightly, as he returns his attentions to the list.

The final section is on submissive service, namely, a list of other services — grocery shopping, chauffeuring, serving as art — that submissives could do. Thorin bites his lip.

“Have we...are we going to discuss what our, uh, roles are?” he asks.

Bilbo briefly glances over at the list. “Perhaps later?” he suggests. “You can, for now, just list what you’d be comfortable doing. I’ll be doing the same, and we can decide on roles in private.”

“Fair enough,” replies Thorin, and finishes the list.

* * *

When Bilbo finishes the list as well, Thorin is working his way through an ice-cream sundae.

“Do you want the cherry?” he asks, and Bilbo’s eyes light up.

“I love maraschino cherries!” he exclaims. Thorin grins.

“Open your mouth,” he suggests, and Bilbo complies. Thorin slowly places the cherry into Bilbo’s mouth, feeling shivers running up and down his spine as Bilbo’s sinful lips close around the cherry, stem and all, leaving an odd tingling in Thorin’s fingers where he’d barely brushed against Bilbo’s lips.

He watches, as Bilbo slowly chews the cherry. There’s another pause, and then Bilbo reaches up and pulls out the stem, tied into a knot.

Thorin swallows heavily. Bilbo sets the cherry stem onto the napkin, and smiles innocently up at Thorin, who reaches forward, cups Bilbo’s cheek, and kisses him, chasing the taste of cherry around Bilbo’s lips.

“I can’t get enough of this,” he mutters when they break apart, and Bilbo laughs, chasing after him to peck his lips again.

“Glad we’ve come to a consensus on that,” he says, and then gestures to the list. “We should come to a consensus about this, too.”

He unfolds the side of the paper with Thorin’s answers, and they look at their scores together.

Thorin’s not surprised that Bilbo is willing to do some of the riskier things that he had rated fairly low simply because of lack of exposure. It sends shivers down his spine, to be honest — so far, Bilbo’s been nothing but trustworthy. Thorin reckons that he’d be in good hands if he does, in fact, venture out to try things like butt plugs and cock rings and caning.

“I’d hoped that you would like phone sex,” says Bilbo with a small chuckle as he gestures to the ‘yes’ on Thorin’s side of the paper. He hums, leaning against Thorin as he continues to run his finger down the list. “And for the most part it looks like our interest areas are lined up.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Thorin puts an arm around Bilbo, smiling hesitantly.

“Oh, definitely. What we do want to fine-tune, though, is our wants and needs. We know what we’re willing to do, but what do we want to do?” A pause. “ _What turns you on_?” Bilbo whispers this question into Thorin’s ear, tongue darting out to flick at the lobe as he does so. Thorin barely suppresses his gasp.

“You do,” he points out.

“What do you want me to do to you?” teases Bilbo. “Or, since we haven’t negotiated anything about roles yet — what would you want to do to me?”

“What _wouldn’t_ I do?” wonders Thorin, and Bilbo pointedly taps at the paper. “Point conceded. But at least consider everything on my yes list — I’d do any of that with you.”

Bilbo hums. “What if I told you that I’d like nothing more than to undress you like a Christmas present, tie you up with ribbons, and then lick body icing off your broad muscular chest?”

Thorin almost chokes on a spoonful of ice-cream. He coughs, trying to regain his composure. Bilbo chuckles, takes a smudge of the melting whipped cream on the sundae and putting it on Thorin’s nose, before kissing it off. Thorin’s not sure why he hasn’t melted like his dessert yet.

It takes him a moment to regain his voice, and even then it is hesitant. “I want…” he murmurs, and then pauses. “I’ve sometimes dreamed of being a king,” he admits.

“A king,” muses Bilbo, raising an eyebrow.

“And I would rule over my people fairly and justly,” adds Thorin, and then laughs softly. “I’d have a consort, too, and to most of the people it looks like my consort obeys me, follows my instructions, defers to my judgement — and yes, they would do that, elsewhere — but when the doors of the royal bedroom are closed, and the courtiers are not watching, things are much more different.”

“You want to be a ruler who is ruled by his consort,” Bilbo says, blunt as ever. Thorin blushes, nods. Bilbo tilts his head to the side, continuing to flip through the list. He then laughs, pointing to the roleplay section.

Both of them have roleplay in general scored as a very enthusiastic ‘yes’.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. Bilbo’s eyes twinkle.

“I think your king and consort fantasies might just become reality,” Bilbo declares.


	5. Safe, Sane, and Consensual

“There are several factors we should always take into consideration when negotiating a BDSM relationship safely, sanely, and consensually,” says Bilbo as he clutches another mug of Silver Needle tea. “And a great deal of them are covered in this form.”

They’re sitting at Thorin’s kitchen counter again, two mugs of tea and a contract spread out in front of them, waiting to be filled.

“Most of these factors can be adjusted to each scene created, which is usually done in a separate negotiation prior to actually carrying out the scene.” Bilbo pauses. “I don’t expect you to be able to do a scene right away, so don’t worry about it.”

“What if I wanted to?” asks Thorin.

“ _I_ wouldn’t be comfortable doing it right away,” replies Bilbo. “Especially not tonight. We could create one for our next encounter, if you want. But tonight, let’s take it easy, all right?”

“Fine with me,” replies Thorin, shrugging.

Bilbo squeezes his hand. “Good things come to people who wait,” he says.

Thorin laughs at that. “Shall we begin?” he asks.

“How businesslike,” teases Bilbo. “It’s very managing director of you.”

“My sister actually asked if I was in a sexual relationship or a business merger with you,” Thorin points out, and Bilbo laughs at that, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid I drive a very hard bargain, Mr Oakenshield,” he declares, affecting a much posher accent. “There are some clauses in this contract that I will not yield upon.”

Thorin chuckles, playing along. “And which clauses would those be, Mr Baggins?”

Bilbo slips back into regular speech. “The safewords, limits, what to do in the case of an emergency, and medical background,” he says, in all seriousness, and Thorin nods.

“I haven’t been in a sexual relationship for a year,” he admits. “Past relationships have been with people of… well, a _variety_ of gender expressions, though after a while they all seemed to blur together.” A pause. “The last time I was tested was after my last relationship. The results came back negative.”

“Could you be retested? asks Bilbo. “I would like to see those results for myself, no offence.”

“None taken.” Thorin shrugs. “What about you?”

“I’ve only worked with protection,” replies Bilbo. “My last scene was about a month ago, and I got tested afterwards because I’d caught the flu bug and thought I’d caught HIV instead. The results were also negative.”

“That must have been a relief,” Thorin remarks.

“You wouldn’t believe it. I could’ve jumped over the moon.” Bilbo laughs. “But still, we’ll get tested for everything before we consider taking barrier protection out of the equation in this relationship. And if we decide to include other people, whether for a scene or for longer, we’re going to use barrier protection with them. Okay?”

“Fair enough,” replies Thorin.

Bilbo nods. “All right, what about other parts of your body? Are there problems with, say, your heart, lungs, joints, kidneys, mental state, or anything else? Anything in your medical history, like asthma or dizziness, that I should be aware of?”

Thorin considers it. “I get vertigo easily,” he says after a moment.

Bilbo nods. “Phobias? Triggers? Allergies? Medications?”

“Aspirin, when I’m hungover. No allergies, phobia of spiders, and triggers…” He shrugs. “Not sure on that yet. Also, my father’s side of the family has had a history of mental illness, but —” He’s cut off by Bilbo raising an eyebrow at him.

“What we do is very mentally strenuous. I don’t want you to do something that’s going to have such an effect on you, or trigger whatever’s in your family history.”

“I haven’t had any of the symptoms yet,” Thorin points out.

Bilbo considers it, and sighs. “ _Yet_ , Thorin. Please monitor and take care of yourself. I will do my best to take care of you, especially if we’re negotiating this with you as submissive — which we seem to be doing — but please, be truthful with me when I check in on you. All right?”

Thorin nods. Bilbo squeezes his hand, makes a couple notes on the contract.

“Okay, what about medications? You said you take aspirin for hangovers. What about ibuprofen? Any other intoxicants?”

“Caffeine, obviously, and alcohol.”

“No recreational drugs?”

“Not unless you count that one time in uni,” replies Thorin, chuckling.

“I think we can safely assume those have been out of your system for a while,” replies Bilbo. “I’m going to note that I go to the pub once a week, though I don’t get drunk every time.” He pauses. “What about tobacco?”

“Trying to quit.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Bilbo laughs, making a note of it. “So, no latex allergies, then? No? What about bandage tape?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about nonoxynol-9?”

“What’s that?”

“A spermicide.”

“Not that I know of?”

Bilbo hums. “Please let me know if that changes.” He then turns to another section. “Emergency contact details? I’m putting down my cousin, Primula Brandybuck; she’s been aware for a while that this is what I do, so she won’t ask too many questions.”

Thorin considers it. “Maybe my sister, Dís Durin? Actually, she’s the one who recommended your shop, and as I mentioned before, she knows we’re, uh, together. Also, she wants a discount.”

Bilbo laughs. “Maybe for her birthday,” he suggests, and Thorin grins at that, taking the contract and writing down Dís’s phone number.

“Dís will probably ask a lot of questions,” he warns. “She’s read the books by A.G. Defiler.”

Bilbo makes a face. “My work is never done,” he sighs, and then turns his attention back to the contract. “Could you take a look at the safety gear list and tell me what you have?”

Thorin looks over, frowning slightly. “Couldn’t we just use regular scissors?”

“Those might break the skin if we’re trying to cut someone out of their bonds. Safety scissors are a better bet.”

“I have a flashlight in the kitchen, as well as a fire extinguisher. And a first aid kit in the guest bathroom.”

“Good, good.” Bilbo nods. “What about a blackout light?”

“I could get one, if we’re going to be doing these things here,” says Thorin.

“Please do. And also make sure to get safety scissors. I have a pair on me, of course, but it helps if both of us had one on hand.” Bilbo turns to the next section. “What about locations? Where are you willing to play?”

“Here,” says Thorin, “though I don’t have any of the equipment.”

“You don’t need a dungeon to have fun with BDSM,” Bilbo points out.

Thorin laughs. “Do _you_ have a dungeon?” he asks. Bilbo laughs.

“Oh _god_ , no, the neighbours would ask too many questions. I use my guest bedroom. And it’s usually things that can be tucked out of sight when my aunt comes poking around.”

Thorin chuckles. “Am I ever going to see your guest bedroom, then?”

“Soon, I hope,” replies Bilbo with a twinkle in his eyes. Thorin’s fairly certain he can feel his heart swell at the sight, at the promise of more.

He turns his attention to the list. “I guess hotel rooms might also work. I’m not sure about outside, or at parties. And there are such things as S&M clubs?”

“Oh, definitely. It’s an interesting way to meet people,” replies Bilbo, shrugging. “I’m not a frequenter of the clubs, myself. Bag End is what gets me scene partners, really.”

Thorin laughs. “I can attest to that,” he says. Bilbo chuckles, squeezing his hand again.

“Let me know if your location preferences change,” he says, and then moves on to the next section. “So, besides your sister, who else will know about this aspect of our relationship?”

“The less people the better, to be honest,” admits Thorin. “My day job requires me to have my dignity intact.”

“Are you suggesting that being submissive takes away your dignity?”

Thorin blanches. “No! But other people are going to see it like that.”

“Fair enough,” concedes Bilbo. “But don’t think for a _moment_ that, just because they are the one who receives whatever sensations the dominant gives, the submissive is in any way _weak_. What obedience and consent the submissive gives, the submissive can take away, and there is nothing a dominant can do to stop it.”

He reaches out, tucks a stray strand of Thorin’s hair behind his ear.

“ _Please_ , remember that.”

Thorin swallows. Bilbo is so earnest about this that it almost breaks his heart. Could there have been something in Bilbo’s previous experiences that made him so passionate about this?

He nods. Bilbo nods, too, and then returns his attention to the contract.

“So, is the king and Consort fantasy something you’d like for one scene only, or multiple ones?” he asks.

“Um,” says Thorin.

“Is it something you want to revisit for as many scenes as possible?”

“I think I might, actually,” replies Thorin.

Bilbo hums. “Is it something you want us to define the BDSM side of our relationship by? Submissive king and dominating Consort?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice as he says that, and Thorin’s heartbeat quickens a little at the words.

“Could we?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not what you typically see —”

“It’s whatever you want to define it as,” Bilbo reassures him, smiling as he writes down the roles on the contract. “What would you like to call me, as your Consort? And what would you like to be called?”

“Your Majesty, obviously,” says Thorin, grinning. Bilbo chuckles. “And you can be Your Highness.”

“Anything else?”

“I will call you ‘my Consort’, ‘my Beloved’, and ‘Sir’.”

Bilbo hums in satisfaction. “And am I only to address you as Your Majesty? What if you’ve been naughty, Your Majesty?” He grins. “Shall I refer to you by ‘pet’? My ‘pet king’? Or ‘boy’?”

He leans in, breath ghosting against Thorin’s lips.

“Such a naughty boy,” he drawls, and Thorin gasps quietly.

“Yes,” he moans. “Please.”

“Wonderful.” Bilbo lightly pats his cheek, and jots that down. “Now, before we get more deeply into the fun things like figuring out how you like to be punished, we should discuss safewords and limits.” He pauses. “There are several established systems of safewording and checking in that we’ll put into place, and you can tell me later which ones you prefer.”

“What are they?” asks Thorin, raising an eyebrow.

“The one-to-ten method for impact play — whipping, spanking, flogging, that sort of stuff — where you tell me on a scale of one to ten — light to heavy —  how much it hurts, or how much pain you want me to inflict. Also, before we begin, please kiss the whip or other implement to show that you’re willing for me to hit you with it.”

“Understood,” says Thorin.

“And throughout the scene, please tell me ‘now’ or nod whenever you want another stroke.”

“All right.”

Bilbo chuckles. “I’m sorry, this is really tedious, I know. But it’s necessary, so that we’re both on the same page before we get into all the fun things.”

“It’s alright,” replies Thorin. “I’m glad you’re taking this time to...to tell me all of this.”

Bilbo smiles, rewarding him with a kiss. He then takes another sip of tea and returns his attention to the contract. “If you’re ever gagged or otherwise unable to speak during a scene, I’ll also check in by squeezing your hand twice. Squeeze back twice if you are alright and wish to continue. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” says Thorin.

Bilbo hums. “And in circumstances where you’re gagged but not bound, I’ll give you my keys to hold in your hand. Please dangle them if you want me to slow down, and drop them if you want to stop. Acceptable?”

Thorin nods again. Bilbo makes a note of it on the contract.

“No, of course, will be a perfectly reasonable safeword, though I imagine there will be scenes where you would like some room to pretend to verbally or physically resist my advances. Do you want to discuss that now, or on a scene-by-scene basis?”

“Maybe on a scene-by-scene basis?” asks Thorin. “I mean, you did say you didn’t like...uh… playing with consent.”

Bilbo’s jaw tenses. “It shouldn’t be a problem if all the other safewords are honoured,” he says.

“I don’t know if —”

“Perhaps,” interrupts Bilbo, “you’ll want to do a scene someday where you want me to ravish you in your sleep.”

That gets Thorin’s attention. He shuffles, straightening himself up.

“In that case, there could be a certain intonation of ‘no’ that will stop the scene, and anything else wouldn’t do the trick.” Bilbo pauses. “But I wouldn’t venture into that area now, not while we’re still getting to know one another. I imagine after a couple of scenes, I’ll know when you’re genuinely in distress and when you’re pretending it.”

Thorin nods at that. “What other safewords will we be using, then?”

“How about the traffic light system? Green for continue, yellow for slow down, red for stop?”

“Fine with me.” Thorin smiles. “Anything else?”

“The word ‘Smaug’ has served me well as a safeword in the past,” Bilbo says quietly.

Thorin nods. Bilbo smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Alright, moving on to limits!” he says, a little hastily. “Can we assume everything that’s a ‘no’ on the list is a hard limit, that everything marked as ‘zero’ is a soft limit, and that everything else is within our bounds to explore?”

“Yes,” agrees Thorin, “though is it possible that we can make things listed as ‘one’ as soft limits for now? We can definitely talk about it later, but...” He shrugs.

“If you wish,” replies Bilbo. “And when we do get around to talking about it, I hope I’ll have earned enough of your trust that you’d be willing to do those things with me.”

Thorin blushes at that.

* * *

The rest of the negotiations pass quickly, mostly because the list filled out at the café informs a great deal of what they will and won’t do. Thorin refuses to be suspended, or to have clamps on his genitals, or to be tickled. Bilbo refuses to hogtie Thorin, or to use hoods during play, or to use metal handcuffs.

“Nerve pinching,” explains Bilbo when Thorin asks about the last one. “Fuzzy restraints look stupid, but they won’t damage your wrists.”

They’ve also agreed only to inflict an average amount of pain on Thorin for now, to be upped or lowered based on his reactions to the first couple of scenes involving impact play. Leaving marks is also deemed acceptable, but only in places that can be covered by street clothes. Bilbo also refuses to draw blood, something Thorin is grateful for.

Finally, they sign their names on the contract. Bilbo grins as Thorin sets down the pen, and leans in to kiss him. Thorin kisses back, softly and sweetly, his eyes closing as he takes in the scent of Bilbo’s aftershave, mingled with the aroma of the Silver Needle tea.

“What now?” he breathes against Bilbo’s lips when they break apart.

“What do you want to do?” Bilbo replies, with a twinkle in his eye. Thorin glances over at the clock. It’s only ten; the night is still young.

“I…” The words seem a bit clogged in his throat. “I want you to put your hands on me,” he says after a moment. “I need you to touch me, properly.”

Bilbo’s hazel eyes are darkened with desire. “That can be arranged,” he murmurs, reaching out and pulling Thorin closer by his tie. They kiss again, and Thorin shrugs out of his suit jacket, pressing himself ever so much closer to Bilbo as he drops his suit jacket to the ground.

Soon he finds himself pinned against his kitchen counter, Bilbo still maintaining a vice-like grip on his tie as his other hand untucks Thorin’s button-down from his trousers. Thorin’s own hands meander down Bilbo’s back, one settling on his ass and squeezing gently. Bilbo squeals into the kiss, breaks it with a giggle and a shake of his head.

“Naughty, _naughty_ boy,” he chides.

“I can’t help it,” replies Thorin, and he’s not sure if that’s the king to his Consort or him to Bilbo. Bilbo chuckles, his hands now making short work of Thorin’s belt and trouser fly. Thorin groans when he feels Bilbo’s hand brush against his cock through his boxers; with a sigh he presses himself into that hand, his own hands moving to loop around Bilbo’s shoulders.

“Thorin,” murmurs Bilbo, his hands reaching down to lightly cup and squeeze Thorin’s balls. “Should we take this somewhere else?”

“ _Please_ ,” moans Thorin, nipping gently at Bilbo’s lips.

Somewhere else, of course, means Thorin’s bedroom, and he’s not quite sure how they’d managed to get from the kitchen to there without taking their hands off one another. They slam into a couple of walls on their way down the hall that leads to the bedroom, but Thorin doesn’t care — all that matters is Bilbo practically tearing at Thorin’s shirt and fumbling at his tie, Bilbo shoving Thorin’s trousers off his hips with titillating roughness. He tries to reciprocate, but his hands are gently smacked away with a chiding look and a small nip to his lips.

Bilbo makes short work of his own clothes once he’s pushed Thorin onto the bed, with its sheets and comforters still ruffled and unmade from the morning. Thorin pushes himself onto his elbows, watching Bilbo approach him in the darkened room lit only by the moonlight and streetlamps of the city below.

Bilbo is so unbelievably beautiful that it takes his breath away. He’s a little soft and chubby; his body is unassuming and harmless, but there is a certain sexy confidence in the way he moves, in the way he straddles Thorin in nothing but his boxers, in the way he leaves Thorin feeling breathless with only the barest of touches.

Bilbo traces the contours of Thorin’s chest, presses kisses to each nipple, licks a trail down to the waistband of Thorin’s boxers. He then looks up at Thorin from there, hooking his fingers in the waistband, and then pulls the flimsy cloth down.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks quietly.

Thorin’s not sure how he doesn’t come on the spot when Bilbo rolls the condom onto his cock with his mouth. It’s almost as if the condom isn’t there, once Bilbo’s mouth starts moving against his cock. The world narrows to little more than just stimuli, to little more than the mounting pleasure and the warmth of his cheeks and the wantonness of his moans. Bilbo takes him almost completely into his mouth, experienced and sure, and Thorin’s blushing throughout the entire thing, squirming with pleasure as he loses himself to ecstasy. He’s just on the verge of climax when Bilbo pulls his mouth away.

Thorin groans in disappointment.

“Patience,” soothes Bilbo, pressing a finger to Thorin’s lips, quelling him for a moment. Thorin’s toes curl in the comforter; his hands grip at the sheets. Bilbo chuckles, tilting his head up with one finger and pressing their lips together. When their hips meet not a minute later, Thorin can feel Bilbo’s own erection through his boxers.

This must be the sweetest form of torment, not being able to fully touch Bilbo as he lies beneath him, helpless to the sensations threatening to overwhelm him. Bilbo’s fingers tangle in his hair and pull, and the pain mixes with the pleasure of the friction between their bodies, mixes with Thorin’s ragged breathing and Bilbo’s contented hums. Finally, Bilbo pulls down his his boxers and takes both of their cocks in his other hand, and Thorin’s fairly certain he’s seeing stars.

It’s nothing more than pants and gasps from there on, of bodies meeting and the deft sureness of Bilbo’s hand against both of their cocks. Thorin’s fingers clench the sheets tighter as the hand in his hair tightens again; he whines against Bilbo’s lips as Bilbo pulls at his scalp.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Bilbo breathes.

“Green,” Thorin responds with a groan. Bilbo chuckles.

“Good boy,” he says, tugging at his hair a little more. Thorin moans, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, giving Bilbo room to kiss and nip at his neck.

“ _God_ , Bilbo —”

“Look at me,” Bilbo instructs, and Thorin’s eyes open in time to see Bilbo, curls lit by the dim lighting of the bedroom and falling in his face, his lashes shining against flushed cheeks.

Thorin comes with a groan that he muffles against Bilbo’s lips. With a soft gasp, Bilbo follows suit, biting down on Thorin’s lips as he comes.

* * *

“I’m sorry for biting too hard,” says Bilbo again after he cleans up the mess he made between their bodies.

“It’s fine,” says Thorin. Bilbo leans in, kissing the bitten lip better. Thorin chuckles sleepily at that, one hand encircling Bilbo and drawing him close.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bilbo murmurs drowsily against Thorin’s chest, and Thorin can almost feel the man blushing as he says that. Bilbo’s hands move up, tracing the line of Thorin’s bearded jaw. “God, I can’t wait to make you my pet king.”

Thorin shivers a little. “I look forward to it,” he whispers. “Just imagine all the things you could do to me.”

“I should have you worshipping my cock as I sit on your throne,” teases Bilbo. “Your Majesty,” he adds, resting his chin on Thorin’s chest and looking up at him with adoring eyes. “What do you think of that as a first scene?”

“Can’t wait,” replies Thorin, and Bilbo presses kisses to the spot where his heartbeat flutters as they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more pedantic things about safety and all of that. Rather necessary, but it does make things a bit dry. But I swear, scenes will start showing up soon.


	6. The First Scene

_A Week Later_

The throne room of the kingdom of Erebor is located in a vast cathedral-like hall, airy and well-lit. Upon a platform sits the throne, ornately hewn from the living rock.

His Consort is lounging on the throne in a robe of blue velvet, his limbs spread out indolently despite the firmness of the throne. The crown sits askew on his head. Already clad in nothing but the sunlight suffusing through the windows, Thorin feels himself hardening a little more at the sight before him as he approaches the throne.

“Where is everyone?” he asks, and his Consort’s eyes flutter open, his mouth spreading in a smirk that sends shivers down Thorin’s spine.

“Gone, by my command,” his Consort says carelessly, fingers tracing intricate patterns into the velvet of his robe. Thorin wants those fingers tracing those patterns into his skin.

“Gone where?”

“Elsewhere.” His Consort winks. “It’s just you and I.” Slowly, he shifts himself into a sitting position, crooking his finger in a come hither gesture that Thorin promptly obeys.

“Kneel,” instructs his Consort when Thorin reaches the throne. Thorin obeys, sinking to his knees in front of his Consort, folding his hands in his lap with his face upturned.

“Beloved,” he says hoarsely, and his Consort leans in, pressing a finger to Thorin’s lips.

“I’ve gone to all this trouble to make sure we have some time alone after all of your dreadful council meetings,” he whispers. “I _expect_ to be rewarded for my efforts.”

“Yes, my Beloved,” murmurs Thorin. His Consort smirks, satisfied, and slowly runs his thumb along Thorin’s lower lip. Thorin’s mouth opens to let his Consort’s fingers slip inside; he gently sucks at them, pressing kisses to the tips. His Consort’s breath comes a little more raggedly, which in turn sends shivers of pleasure and happiness coursing through Thorin’s own body.

“Good boy,” murmurs his Consort, removing his fingers from Thorin’s mouth with a wet pop and patting him gently on the cheek. “Now my feet.”

Thorin sinks down a little lower onto the ground and sucks gently at his Consort’s lovely toes, presses kisses along the bridge and around the ankle. As he runs his hands along his Consort’s calves, however, he feels a tug at his hair and tilts his head back up.

“The other foot,” commands his Consort, “and put some more effort into it, Your Majesty.”

Thorin complies, taking the other foot and cradling it by the heel, lavishing even more attention on it. He kisses each toe before sucking them, runs his tongue along the bridge as his hands massage at the arch and instep. He’s rewarded with a sigh and a gentler tug at his hair, and then begins kissing a trail up his Consort’s legs.

His Consort hums, and draws aside his robe at that. He’s wearing nothing underneath, and his erection rises from a tuft of soft golden curls. Thorin moves to press a kiss to the tip, only to get another chastising tug at his hair.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” A crinkle from his Consort’s robe pocket, and moments later Thorin feels a condom being pressed between his lips. He removes it from its packaging accordingly and rolls it on with his hands, his lips following soon after to press kisses to the tip. The lubricant tastes vaguely like strawberries.

“This is flavoured, my Beloved,” he murmurs.

“Do you like it?” asks his Consort. Thorin hums, taking his Consort into his mouth. He can’t go all the way down to the root — he’s got a gag reflex, after all — but he makes up for the difference with his hands. And as he worships his Consort’s cock, he revels in the noises he elicits. When he licks a long wanton stripe along his Consort’s cock, he’s rewarded with a tug to his hair and a loud, dirty moan from his Consort, and the sound and sensations give him the confidence to continue.

He feels more than tastes his Consort’s release; the condom prevents any spilling. Satisfied, his Consort yanks his head back and presses a long, wet kiss to his lips. Thorin moans as well, his own hands slipping down to grip at his own cock.

A chastising tug and a nip at his lip. “No touching yourself, little king,” commands his Consort, tilting Thorin’s head back with one hand to press a softer kiss to it. “It’d ruin the reward I have in store for you.”

“What reward, my Beloved?” whispers Thorin.

His consort rises to his feet. “Bend over the throne, my pet,” he instructs, and Thorin complies, shivering as he feels the whisper of his Consort’s robe brushing against his back. There’s a small pause, accompanied by the sound of latex snapping and the click of a bottle. Finally, he feels the warmth of a lubed hand slipping between his cheeks.

“Up a little,” murmurs his Consort, and Thorin shifts his ass a little higher in the air, breathing quickening as his Consort’s fingers teasingly circle his hole. Moments later, he feels a soft tickle as his Consort puts a dental dam in place. Moments after that, it’s as if the dam isn’t there at all.

His Consort gives and gives, tongue darting and circling and licking, and it feels so _good_ — Thorin’s been rimmed before, but not like this, not propped up on a throne in a room where anyone in the court can walk in, and this additional forbidden element makes it feel so much better, makes him feel dirty and adventurous. What would people say if they find him now, completely naked, bent over the throne and being debauched by his Consort’s tongue?

His Consort’s hands are a soft pressure against his ass as his tongue fucks him over and over. Thorin knows he’s close now, knows there’s only so much more of this delicious pleasure that he can take. He moans, hands curling against the throne as he tries to wriggle back against his Consort’s mouth, demanding more.

A light chastising smack to his ass. “Patience,” insists his Consort, breath fluttering at the dam. There’s a smooth sliding feeling as the dam is removed, and then his Consort’s gloved fingers are back, a firm pressure against the muscles around his hole.

Thorin moans. “Please,” he gasps. He’s not sure what he’s pleading for exactly; he wants so much of everything.

His Consort hums. “Would you like to come, Your Majesty?” he whispers in Thorin’s ear, tugging at Thorin’s hair as he does so. Thorin whimpers and nods, as one of his Consort’s fingers presses into him slowly and carefully.

A soft chuckle, and then his Consort’s fingers crook and rub against his prostate, and Thorin gasps loudly as he comes.

* * *

“What a mess.” Bilbo’s voice is soft as Thorin blinks away the stars in his vision from his orgasm, and he straightens up from his leather armchair to realise — with no small amount of horror — that he’d come all over it.

“Shit,” he mutters, backing away from it. Bilbo’s tied his robe more tightly around himself, and is already bustling about in the kitchen

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, coming back into the living room area with a damp towel. He gently pats Thorin down with it before wiping away the stains on the armchair. “How are we doing?”

“...My _god_ ,” breathes Thorin, his face bright red but his smile euphoric.

“Is that a good ‘my god’?” asks Bilbo, quirking an eyebrow.

“I…” Thorin trails off. Shakily, he rises to his feet, stumbles over to the couch. “I’ve never been rimmed like that before,” he admits.

“Shh,” suggests Bilbo, draping a soft blanket around his shoulders. “Why don’t we talk about this later?”

Thorin looks at the armchair. The condom, the dental dam, and the glove have been tossed into the rubbish bin they had on hand. He’d almost forgotten they had been there. Had he really spent all of that time mentally immersed in his fantasy image of a throne room of a kingdom far far away?

Bilbo’s arms are comforting and sure around him as he holds him close on the couch. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

Thorin’s stomach growls before he can reply. Bilbo chuckles, nuzzling his forehead and pressing sweet, gentle kisses to his cheek.

“Do you mind if I made pancakes?” he offers.

Thorin grins. “I love pancakes,” he replies.

“Sit tight, then. Call me if you need anything,” replies Bilbo, pressing a kiss to his forehead before extricating himself and walking into the kitchen.

Thorin sits there on the couch, still cocooned in the blanket, still reeling from what he’d just experienced. His first scene with Bilbo, the promised throne room fantasy, had exceeded all of his expectations.

He remembers them discussing and planning the scene, over text messages and a phone call one night that got him taking a cold shower afterwards. They’d planned out everything, discussed all the acts that were to be performed, reminded each other of the safewords. Thorin had spent the entire week in a state of nerves only soothed when Bilbo recommended him to a meditation instructor in lieu of cigarettes.

On the day of the appointed ‘playdate’, as Bilbo had jokingly called it, Thorin had showered thoroughly, taking great care to clean and condition his beard so that it would feel good against Bilbo’s skin. He’d also tried some of the relaxation tips Radagast had given him, but all it did was remind him that Bilbo was coming over — _Bilbo_ was closing up shop early to come do a scene with him, _Bilbo_ was interrupting his daily routine to pleasure him — and then he’d get nowhere near relaxed. In fact, he had been a strange mixture of jittery and aroused when the buzzer rang, and he’d gone to answer the door with his heart in his throat.

Bilbo’s own eyes had been bright, Thorin remembers, and he had a satchel full of supplies and a blue velvet robe. He’d kissed Thorin at the door and asked for a place to get changed, and the rest was history.

Thorin leans against the couch, eyes closing as he replays the scene in his head. He shivers as he remembers Bilbo jokingly donning a tacky plastic crown with his robe, Bilbo slipping into the role of the Consort, Bilbo fingering and rimming him until he came. They haven’t even gotten into the more physically intense sides of BDSM, and Thorin has already been undone.

Perhaps that’s a good thing. Being undone at the hands of Bilbo Baggins at least seems to give him a good chance of being put back together, complete with pancakes and maple syrup.

The smell of pancakes drifts over from the kitchen area, and Thorin commits the comforting aroma to memory with a happy sigh. Slowly, he clambers to his feet, padding into the kitchen area where Bilbo is flipping pancakes. Already there’s a small plateful of them, and Thorin grins as he drapes himself around Bilbo, pressing kisses to the top of head. He’s taller than the other man by a head and a half, so Bilbo has to tilt his head back to kiss him, arching an eyebrow as he does so.

“Did you want something?” he asks.

Thorin hums and shrugs, nuzzling his nose into Bilbo’s curls. The other man giggles briefly, before catching himself and harrumphing.

“Well, that’s not a proper answer,” he declares.

“No,” admits Thorin. “I just want to be near you.” His hands settle on Bilbo’s hips, finger digging in slightly. Bilbo chuckles, lightly smacking them away.

“Didn’t we just have sex?” he asks.

“You pamper me too much. I’m insatiable.”

“Are you sure you’re the same blushing fellow who stepped into my store and said he was just testing the waters?” Bilbo’s voice is teasing. “I’m astounded that any of your previous partners ever wanted to let you go. You’re such a good little king.”

“My previous partners were all...not kinky,” mutters Thorin against Bilbo’s ears.

“Vanilla?” echoes Bilbo.

“Yeah.” A pause. “And most of the time I had to do all the work. It was tiring.”

“I imagine,” replies Bilbo, humming slightly. He bucks his hips teasingly against Thorin’s before sidestepping him with a wink and turning off the stove. “So you agreed to be submissive so that I’d have to do all the work?”

“No, I — if you ever want to switch —”

“Oh hush. I’m teasing.” Bilbo kisses his shoulder. “Though, if you’re interested, I _have_ done both roles, and I’m pretty fine with either. Just food for thought.”

“Those are not the thoughts you want to feed,” Thorin jokes.

“ _Really_?” Bilbo winks at him. “I think they’re _exactly_ the thoughts I want to feed. And speaking of feeding —”

The pancakes are piled onto the counter moments later, accompanied by whipped cream and maple syrup. Bilbo slices his stack into little pieces and feeds them to Thorin, who obediently sits there in his blanket and eats them.

“We could watch a movie,” he suggests after a particularly heavenly bite of pancake.

“That sounds fantastic,” agrees Bilbo.

* * *

**_How are we doing? :)  
BB_ **

Thorin gets the text during work the next day. He smiles at his phone, leaning back in his office chair to type out a response.

**_Feeling much better, thanks -T_ **

**_That’s good. You seemed a bit lodged in subspace yesterday and I wanted to make sure you were fine.  
BB_ **

**_Subspace? What’s that -T_ **

**_The headspace subs get into when they’re in a scene. Sorta the sub mentality, I guess??? It sometimes takes a while to wear off.  
BB_ **

**_I did a scene once that sent me into subspace for ~24 hours.  
BB_ **

**_I managed to snap back to reality right before I went into work with a collar on.  
BB_ **

**_;)  
BB_ **

Thorin chuckles. It wouldn’t have been odd for Bilbo to be wearing a collar in his shop, though. He tries to imagine himself going to work with a collar still on, and blushes as the imagined scene quickly shifts to Bilbo putting the collar on him, hands gentle as he fastens the clasps. Perhaps he should stop by Bag End this afternoon and look around for one. He might as well pick up some more equipment while he’s at it.

**_I guess I was a bit out of it yesterday, sorry -T_ **

**_Did I really tell you I was insatiable? -T_ **

**_Yes, you did. It was adorable.  
BB_ **

**_Not sure if I should be sorry -T_ **

**_I don’t think you are ;P  
BB_ **

Thorin laughs a little louder. Of course Bilbo would use all of these winky faces in his texts. It makes his chest flutter stupidly at the sight.

**_Checked in with your sis yet?  
BB_ **

Shit. Thorin had forgot to tell her Bilbo was coming at all, given how nervous he had been, and how the scene didn’t involve anything that would've sent him to A&E anyway. But of course that is unjustified. At least to Bilbo, it would be. He feels humiliated, guilty, at this slight letdown.

**_I forgot to tell her you were coming -T_ **

He can almost hear the exasperation on the other end.

**_Safety precautions are there for a reason, Thorin  
BB_ **

**_I’m sorry. Does this mean I get spanked the next time you see me? -T_ **

**_Eager, aren’t we?  
BB_ **

**_Only with you ;) -T_ **

**_;) ;) ;) -T_ **

**_Two can play at this game -T_ **

**_;))))))  
BB_ **

Thorin valiantly resists the urge to clutch his phone to his chest and squeal like a little girl. He hurriedly types out another text:

**_Can’t wait to talk about our next scene ;) -T_ **

There’s no immediate response for that, but Thorin isn’t fazed. It’s work hours; Bilbo could be dealing with customers. He hasn’t seen anyone else helping out at the shop, either, though he’s sure Bilbo must have at least one assistant.

He gets the next response a couple hours later:

**_We can’t really negotiate the next scene until we share some feedback on the last one.  
BB_ **

**_Room for improvement and all.  
BB_ **

Thorin sighs. Bilbo has a point, though. Not everything in the first scene had gone perfectly, and he’s sure Bilbo’s got feedback for him in spades.

**_Dinner? -T_ **

**_We could do a night out -T_ **

**_Do silly tourist crap in London or something -T_ **

Those messages also go unanswered for a while, and it’s only when Thorin is packing his briefcase and getting ready to leave that Bilbo responds.

**_Wednesday @5pm outside Bag End?  
BB_ **

**_I’ve always wanted to watch the sun go down over the London Eye.  
BB_ **

Thorin grins.

**_Your wish is my desire, my Beloved. -T_ **

He imagines Bilbo chuckling as he receives that. Within moments, the prompt reply:

**_Good boy.  
xoxo BB_ **

Thorin chuckles, and pockets his phone.


	7. London Eye

The setting sun dyes the London skyline in vibrant hues of pinks and golds as their capsule on the London Eye begins to rise.

Thorin had booked them tickets for the early evening champagne experience, which comes with a complimentary glass of Pommery Brut Royal champagne to enjoy with the view. Bilbo is pensive as the Eye slowly begins to rotate, sipping his champagne with eyes practically glued to the windows of the capsule.

The host is leading the rest of the boarding party through a brief lecture on London’s history. It’s a fairly small group — Thorin and Bilbo are two out of ten — and mostly comprised of tourists. Everyone is at least of drinking age; there aren’t any children around to overhear their conversations.

“So,” says Bilbo after a moment.

“So,” agrees Thorin, coming over to stand by him.

“What was your overall feeling about the scene?” Bilbo turns around, expression open and honest. “I’d like for you to be truthful, please.”

“It was… It was both like and unlike anything I’d ever felt before in my life,” Thorin admits. “I mean, some of what we did I’ve done before, obviously, but when you add that new king and Consort dynamic to it… there’s just something different.”

“A good different or a bad different?”

“A good different! I liked it.”

Bilbo nods. “And on a scale of one to ten, with ten being, uh, mind-blowingly great, how would you rate the encounter?” He then chuckles, adding, “Be honest with me, please, or next time we’re going to have to do this on paper in separate rooms, or something.”

Thorin makes a face. Bilbo laughs.

“Thought so. What’s your rating, then?”

“Probably about an nine? My armchair got dirty, but that can be fixed. Next time we’ll put a sheet over it.”

Bilbo nods and hums. “ _I’d_ rate it about a seven.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “Really? Why?”

“I thought I lost you,” admits Bilbo, taking another sip of the champagne. “You got really into your head during the scene. No wonder it took you so long to get out of subspace.”

“Really… into my head?” echoes Thorin.

“I think you got invested in the fantasy behind the scene?” muses Bilbo, before adding, “Which, of course, isn’t a _bad_ thing, per se — it just shows your imagination’s working really well — but it did unsettle me a bit because I like a little more of a tangible connection to my partner, you know?”

“Ah.” Thorin deflates. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no! There’s no need to apologise for a great imagination.” Bilbo leans up on tiptoes to kiss him softly. When they break away, he adds, “what you should be apologising for, however, is the fact that you entered the scene without your silent alarm.”

“I forgot! I was really nervous!” It comes out a little more defensive than he’d like. Bilbo notices it too, notices the redness of Thorin’s ears, and kisses him again.

“Shush. We all get a bit jittery and sometimes things escape us. That’s fine.”

Thorin relaxes slightly. That’s when Bilbo adds:

“However, your safety is my concern, and while I cannot call your sister for you in the future, I will take the steps necessary to make sure this doesn’t happen again. All right?”

“...The steps necessary?” A bolt of something warm shoots through Thorin, pooling in his stomach.

“A little punishment. Nothing too big; this was a little slip-up.” The faintest hint of a smirk curls at Bilbo’s lips. “And after all, we’re in public.”

Thorin shivers, and not from the cold. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing you marked as a limit,” replies Bilbo with a wink. “It’s going to be a little something to test your self-control.”

And sure enough, Thorin feels a hand slip into the back pocket of his trousers. A pause, and then a hard pinch. He gasps quietly.

The hand then cups his ass briefly before it gives another pinch. Thorin’s breath comes in a shaky shudder. He looks down at Bilbo, who looks up at him innocently. No one else in the capsule seems to be paying them any mind.

“Are we alright with this?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin swallows and nods.

Bilbo grins. “Good, good. And are you aware of what you’ve done wrong?”

“I left myself in mortal danger by not notifying my sister that I was going to go do a BDSM scene with my Consort,” intones Thorin drily, and gets a particularly vicious pinch to his backside for his cheek.

“Smartass,” growls Bilbo.

“An ass you seem to like to pinch,” retorts Thorin.

Bilbo retaliates by slipping his hand into one of Thorin’s front pockets this time, fingers deliberately seeking out Thorin’s cock through the cloth to rub against it. Thorin’s breath comes out ragged at that.

“Don’t let anyone else know,” teases Bilbo, just a hint of the Consort showing through in the glint of his eyes.

Thorin tries to send him a withering look, but Bilbo merely moves his fingers again, and the look is forgotten.

“Now you’re getting it.” Bilbo’s smile is innocent again as he whispers the words in Thorin’s ear, leaning up as he does so. “Isn’t this perfectly mortifying, being felt up in front of other people?”

“We’re not really in front of them, and there’s only ten of us, so it’s not that public,” Thorin replies, and Bilbo responds to that with a pinch to the thigh and a hard nip at Thorin’s left earlobe. Thorin barely catches himself from moaning. _That_ would have attracted attention.

Bilbo moves back to fondling Thorin’s cock through his trousers, often looking back to make sure the others in the capsule aren’t paying attention to them. Thorin himself is trying to remain still and not make any blatantly sexual noises, biting down on his knuckles in an attempt to mitigate the temptation to moan.

“I’d love to see you in a gag,” Bilbo muses. Thorin whimpers from around his knuckles. This is simultaneously the best and the worst situation to be in — they’re on the _London Eye_ , for chrissakes, in a capsule with eight other people and a host, and how is anyone not even looking over at them? The fact that they could at any moment is making Thorin squirm with the strange mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment.

The pleasure mounts with each stroke, and Thorin has to call up every last shred of self-control he has left to keep himself from openly reacting like he wants to do. It feels _too_ good, yet part of him knows Bilbo would be displeased if he attracted any attention — he _himself_ would be displeased if he attracted any attention. And yet part of him is tempted to, just to see how Bilbo would punish him for that.

He’s nearing the edge now, parts of him feeling fuzzy and weightless from the endorphins that Bilbo’s pinches elicit. His breathing is more ragged than before, and as he looks at Bilbo part of him temporarily panics about the fact that he’s about to come in his pants.

Except he doesn’t. Except Bilbo pulls his hands away at the last minute, and Thorin is teetering at the edge of orgasm with heaving breaths and reddened knuckles. He makes a small whine of disappointment, even as Bilbo smiles innocently up at him.

“The rotation’s almost over,” he says as if that’s a suitable explanation.

“Tease,” grumbles Thorin, though it comes off a lot more desperate than he wants it to.

“Thank you,” replies Bilbo cheekily, and pinches Thorin’s ass again. Thorin grits his teeth and follows Bilbo out the capsule with the rest of the tourists, and it’s only when they’re in the relative privacy of a cab back to Belgravia that Bilbo properly sends him over the edge.

* * *

Thorin is washing the dishes after dinner when he feels Bilbo slip his arms around him.

After the moment in the cab, Bilbo had instructed for the cabbie to drop them off at Belgrave square. They’d wandered hand-in-hand through the park there for a bit, before Thorin, partly out of a desire to change, had suggested they make dinner at his flat instead of eating out. Bilbo had readily agreed, and they’d stopped by Waitrose on their way back to get some ingredients for a tossed salad and some pasta.

He leans back into Bilbo’s embrace now, heart fluttering as he feels the other man press kisses to his shoulders. After a moment of just standing there and enjoying Bilbo’s touch, however, Thorin remembers that his hands are covered in dishwater.

“Let me finish the dishes,” he says, though the words come like molasses; he’s reluctant to have Bilbo leave, but the other man’s touch is magically distracting.

Bilbo acquiesces, and Thorin can feel his eyes on him from kitchen counter, and it sends thrills down his spine — to be watched by Bilbo, by his Consort, in a way that makes him feel so desired and beautiful inside and out is something he’s sure he’ll never get used to.

He finishes the dishes quickly then, leaving them to drip dry at the side of the sink, and crosses over to where Bilbo is leaning against the counter so he can rest his hands on the other man’s hips and kiss him thoroughly.

“How are we feeling?” Bilbo asks when they break apart.

“I’m surprised I made it through the neighbourhood Waitrose with come-stained trousers,” Thorin remarks. “It was _dirty_. I can’t believe it excited me.”

“And the, uh, _bit_ on the Eye?”

“You are an evil tease,” replies Thorin with a grin.

“But you’re not _too_ uncomfortable with it, right?”

“How did you know I’d absolutely hate not being able to moan?”

Bilbo winks and kisses him, nipping playfully at his lower lip. When they part, he says, “because I’ve noticed you’re quite impatient, and _very_ vocal in bed.”

“Using my own skills against me,” harrumphs Thorin.

“That’s the point.” Bilbo loops his arms around his neck. “Be a good boy, and you won’t have to hold it all in like that again.”

Thorin chuckles. “What if I hadn’t held it all in?” he wonders. “Would you have punished me for that?”

“Yes, with lines,” retorts Bilbo. Thorin raises an eyebrow. “I’m not about to spank you as a punishment when you haven’t experienced spanking for fun, and personally I don’t like mixing the two. I think I’d much rather make you write ‘I will not moan when my Consort asks me to be silent’ until the lesson sinks in.”

“I’ve done too many lines in school,” grumbles Thorin.

“That’s the point. Disciplinary punishment isn’t the same as fun punishment.”

Thorin blows a raspberry. Bilbo chuckles, cupping his cheeks and kissing him, long and hard and slow.

“Anything else about the scene or what happened today that we should talk about?” he asks.

“How do I...not get lost in my head the next time?” Thorin wonders.

Bilbo chuckles. “No, no. Imagination is good, and figuring out what you experience or don’t experience in subspace will be important in the future.” He runs a hand along Thorin’s cheek, smiling. “I’m just going to have to check in with you a bit more in the future, especially when we start getting into more intense and painful scenes. Sometimes it’s possible to get so deep into subspace that you don’t react to check-in questions, and I want to make sure we’re communicating about these things now rather than later.”

Thorin exhales, nods. “Fair enough,” he agrees, leaning into Bilbo’s hand with a contented sigh. Bilbo runs his other hand through Thorin’s hair, pressing soft kisses along his jaw.

Thorin could’ve stayed like this forever, just standing in the kitchen with Bilbo in his arms, holding onto him and savouring every touch and caress. It’s remarkable how versatile the other man is; he’s a dangerously sexy Consort one moment, a professional and knowledgeable shopkeeper the next, and right now? Right now, Thorin’s fairly certain the man he’s holding, the man who’s stroking his cheek with open vulnerability in his expression, is the most he’s going to see at this time of real Bilbo. And there’s something about that thought that feels more intimate than sex.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” Thorin asks quietly, and Bilbo blinks, and it’s as if a thin veneer of the ‘professional shopkeeper’ has dropped over Bilbo’s face, infused itself into his smile.

“I’m not sure if —”

“We don’t have to have sex, obviously.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Says the insatiable one.”

“I was in subspace when I said that,” defends Thorin.

“Oh, I know. I still think it’s cute.” Bilbo chuckles, presses a kiss to his nose. “All right, I’ll stay.”

* * *

“Do you ever have people helping out at Bag End?”

They’re lying side-by-side in bed, facing one another. Moonlight pours in through the window, lighting Bilbo’s features in silvery-blue. It takes Thorin’s breath away.

Bilbo hums. “Why, are you looking for a job?” he asks with a cheeky grin.

Thorin laughs. “No, no — though if something does happen to me at Erebor, I will take you up on that offer.”

“I require all of my employees to undergo several sexual health training courses,” replies Bilbo cheerily. “Education comes before selling products, in my book.”

“That’s good.” Thorin traces the curve of Bilbo’s cheek with a soft smile. “I was curious, since I didn’t notice anyone else helping out at the shop when I was there.”

“Oh, it’s usually just Rosie and Casey helping me out, though last weekend I had to close up early because Casey had a medical appointment to catch at the time, and Rosie doesn’t work Fridays or Saturdays for religious purposes.” Bilbo shrugs. “I’ll make sure to introduce you to them the next time you come in; they’re lovely people.”

“I’m sure,” agrees Thorin.

“Usually in February I call in Dori and Bombur for additional help as well as workshopping,” continues Bilbo, “since they’re both good at what they do.” He chuckles. “Dori’s foreplay workshops tend to be popular with couples, and Bombur’s chocolate tasting is a hit with pretty much all of the customers.”

“Shame I didn’t know about you last Valentine’s day,” jokes Thorin.

Bilbo laughs. “I’m sure if you visited their tea shop they’d still give you the information.” He pauses. “Also, Bombur’s well-known on the BDSM scene, too. He runs a support group for submissives who have been in relationships with abusive Dominants. He always makes sure there’s biscuits at every meeting.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow and waits, since Bilbo’s expression has grown a bit pensive. After a moment, the other man speaks up again.

“He invited me to a munch this upcoming Sunday, actually. If you’re interested, you could come with me and meet some other kinky folks in a non-kinky environment.”

“Is that what a munch entails?” asks Thorin. Bilbo nods. “Is it confidential?”

“Pretty much. We grab brunch at the Green Dragon off Leicester Square, the topics are kept as far away from the bedroom as possible, and it’s completely casual. You don’t have to go; I’m just extending an invitation since you’re my partner —”

“Oh no, it sounds interesting,” says Thorin, smiling. “I’d be interested in attending with you.”

Bilbo mirrors his smile. “Oh, good,” he says, and leans in to press a soft kiss to Thorin’s lips. Thorin closes his eyes, feeling Bilbo’s arms securely tucked against him, and sighs in contentment. He buries his nose in Bilbo’s hair, thrilling at the scent of his own shampoo and soap clinging to Bilbo’s form. The other man’s breathing is evening out as he lies tucked against Thorin, who opens his eyes and lies awake a moment longer to run his hand through Bilbo’s hair.

There’s something so vulnerable about his Dominant — his Consort — in sleep, something so fragile in the way the moonlight catches his facial features. Thorin has his suspicions about what could have made Bilbo the way he is now, but he’s not sure how to vocalise it. All he knows — and perhaps it’s just his inner submissive talking or something — is that he’s determined to make this work. To make sure he serves Bilbo to the best of his ability.

With that in mind, Thorin succumbs to the inexorable waves of sleep.


	8. Munches, Whips, and Plugs

**_We got this new plug in. Isn’t it pretty?_ ** **  
_BB_**

Thorin looks at the picture Bilbo has sent him, and claps a hand to his mouth to stop any possible vocal reactions to it. He’s in the middle of a meeting, and his financial director Glóin is busy making a presentation on where the monthly budget should be allocated. Calling attention to himself is the last thing he needs.

He puts on his best stern face — the one that apparently strikes fear into the hearts of lower-level employees — and sets down his phone, but the damage has been done. He can’t unsee that cute little stainless steel plug, and he can’t un-fantasise about wearing it. Which, of course, are inappropriate thoughts for a meeting with his financial director.

It’s only after the meeting is over that he dares to reply:

**_You gave me some very inappropriate thoughts during a meeting with my fd, thanks -T_ **

**_Oh my god, that was such horrible timing, I’m sorry!  
BB_ **

**_It’s fine. Got me to think about using one, actually -T_ **

**_Tell me more.  
BB_ **

**_I’ve never worn one of those things. I didn’t know they were so pretty -T_ **

**_There’s also ones with magnetic animal tails on them. ;P  
BB_ **

**_I think I like this one more. -T_ **

**_Could you get me one? I’ll pay you back on the next date. -T_ **

**_;) -T_ **

Bilbo takes a couple minutes to reply, but when he does, Thorin blushes hard at reading it. He’s glad he’s back in his office now; as long as he gets the reports read and replied to by the end of the day, no one will care about the barrage of dirty thoughts rolling through his mind right now.

**_Done. ;)))  
xoxo BB_ **

**_Can’t wait to try it. ;) -T_ **

And with that, he turns his attention back to his work.

Before he met Bilbo, Erebor and his work had been Thorin’s only escapes. In a way, they still are. They ground him, especially in relation to the euphoria and general weightlessness that is being with Bilbo. They give him a power of a different sort from the power he feels at Bilbo’s hands.

But the responsibilities of directing Erebor can be tiring. Thorin doesn’t miss the nights he’s spent at the office, burning the midnight oil over piles and piles of reports. He doesn’t miss the constant feelings of pressure and anxiety. Being with Bilbo has given him spaces in which he can take the responsibilities off his back and submit.

And speaking of Bilbo —

**_Can’t wait to see you wearing it. ;)  
xoxo BB_ **

Thorin shivers in anticipation.

* * *

Bilbo doesn’t bring the plug to the munch on Sunday, obviously, but he holds Thorin’s hand in front of all the other attendees, and Thorin tries to look casual about it. It’s almost stupidly hard to do, especially since he’s actually quite pleased about the fact that Bilbo’s holding his hand.

“Thorin, this is Bombur, purveyor of biscuits and chocolate,” Bilbo introduces as they take a seat at the table with the other guests. Bombur, sitting at the head of the table, is rotund with a jolly face and a big red beard. To his left is a young person with a shock of bright purple hair, dark skin, and thick-rimmed glasses. “And that’s Casey next to him, actually. Feeling better, Case?”

“Loads,” replies Casey, rolling their sleeves up and smiling benignly at Thorin. “Is he your new partner?” they ask Bilbo.

“Yes, as a matter of fact!” Bilbo’s smile seems to stretch from ear to ear, and Thorin feels his heart flutter and his cheeks flare up in response.

“You said his name was Thorin?” echoes Bombur, before turning to shake Thorin’s hand. “So nice to meet you! Bilbo’s told all of us about you at least once.”

“All good things, of course,” adds Casey, before pulling out their phone and busying themselves with it. Bilbo turns to the other members of the group instead.

“We’re a pretty small group out of the larger scene here in London,” he explains, “and we’re a bit more tight-knit than other groups, or so I’ve heard.” He then raises an eyebrow at the regal blonde who’s just taken a seat at the table. “Galadriel? I thought you said you were, quote-unquote, ‘tied up with work’.”

“The client had to reschedule,” replies Galadriel, checking her own phone. “They had their own clients to deal with, and not in a fun way, I imagine.”

“Who was it?” asks Casey, looking up from their phone with an evil grin.

“ _Confidentiality_ , Mx Bolger,” tsks Galadriel, raising an eyebrow. Casey rolls their eyes.

Thorin pulls out Bilbo’s chair for him. Bilbo rewards him with a hand squeeze as he sits down. “What about Thranduil and Bard; are they coming?” he asks as he picks up the menu.

“Bard’s on the way,” says Bombur. “He said Thranduil was going to be out of town until next Saturday, so we can assume he’s not going to show up.”

“I see,” says Bilbo, nodding, looking down at the menu. The hand holding Thorin’s entwines their fingers together. Thorin hides his grin behind his own menu.

Bombur leans towards Thorin. “How’s it like, being with him?”

“...In what context?” asks Thorin, raising an eyebrow.

“In general. Is he doing okay?”

“He seems to be fine, yeah,” says Thorin, frowning slightly. “Is there something I should be worried about?”

Bombur shrugs. “For all his talk about honesty, Bilbo’s got a bad habit of being dishonest with himself.”

Bilbo looks over at them. “Is he slandering me?” he asks loudly.

“I don’t know,” Thorin replies as diplomatically as possible. Bombur chuckles.

“I suggest you keep an eye out,” he suggests in a quieter voice.

“ _Is_ there something?” whispers Thorin.

“Not that I know, at present. But —”

“Bombur, did you forget that this is supposed to be a drama-free table?” Casey loudly asks from their seat.

“Yeah, I thought there was a rule against blathering about other people’s problems,” Bilbo adds, though he’s smiling.

Thorin opens his mouth to respond, when a tall dark-haired man in a trench coat enters and takes a seat at the other end of the table from Bombur.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says.

“Bard!” Bombur exclaims from across the table, grinning. “Nice of you to show up. You’re just in time to meet Thorin!”

“What, Bilbo’s new playmate?” asks Bard, smiling grimly over at Thorin before reaching across the table to shake his hand.

“Does _everyone_ —” begins Thorin, and Bard nods.

“Everyone at this table, at least. Bilbo’s been nothing but excited for us to meet you.” Bard shrugs.

“I thought it was about time he settled for something a bit more long-term,” agrees Galadriel. “Scenes with a string of relative strangers just isn’t his usual style.”

“Drama-free,” Casey warns.

“You could be a dungeon monitor at the next play party, Case, with the way you keep policing us,” Bard remarks drily. Thorin raises an eyebrow.

“The next…?” he echoes.

“It’s like a party, but less vanilla,” explains Casey with a wink.

Thorin raises the other eyebrow. Bilbo leans in and whispers, “We don’t have to go to any of those, if you don’t want to.” Thorin shrugs. Bilbo squeezes his hand and smiles again. The server chooses that moment to show up and take their orders, and Thorin has to quickly scramble to find a meal he’d like to eat.

The rest of the munch passes relatively smoothly. Everyone discusses work and family, swapping news around the table. Casey mentions that their partner, whom they had first met on FetLife, is moving in with them the next month. Galadriel complains vocally about yet another client trying to recreate the gilded dungeon scene from A.G. Defiler’s newest novel, _The Dragon’s Sickness_. Bombur happily announces that he and Dori are bringing back the aphrodisiac teas which apparently had been a huge hit at Bag End in February. And Bard informs them that his eldest son, Bain, has gotten into King’s College London. That particular tidbit of news is greeted with congratulatory pats on the back.

After the munch, as Bilbo, Bard, and Galadriel work out how to best split the bill, Bombur pulls Thorin aside and presses a card into his hand.

“If you want to hear more,” he offers.

“More?” echoes Thorin.

“Look,” says Bombur. “Dori and I have worked with Bilbo for a while now. He’s a good bloke, and he means a lot to us. And since now you’re the one closest to him, we thought it’d only be fair to let you know that you’re not alone in caring for him.”

“What happened to him?” whispers Thorin. “I thought maybe he’s just had a bad experience in this community sometime in the past, given what he’s let slip to me before, but —”

Bombur shakes his head, his expression undeniably sad. “It’s much worse than that,” he admits.

Thorin swallows, grits his teeth. “I need to know, then,” he says.

Bombur taps the card. “If you want to know,” he repeats, and puts a finger to his lips.

* * *

“How are we feeling about these restraints? Are they too tight?”

This time Thorin has made sure to tell Dís that Bilbo is coming over. She’d giggled about it extensively and asked him to send pictures when he checks in with her, and he’d quickly retaliated with a flat refusal.

Now he’s lying facedown on his bed listening to smooth, gentle music. The restraints on his wrists and ankles are tied to the straps of an under-the-bed restraint system. Bilbo had brought all of these things with him; they look fairly standard and feel reasonably comfortable.

Bilbo tugs at his bindings, inserts a finger between Thorin’s wrist and the restraint, and nods.

“Can you move?” he asks. Thorin squirms for him. “Good, good.”

Thorin takes a deep breath. “We’re not doing roles today, right?”

“I need you to stay with me for as long as possible, yes,” agrees Bilbo. “We could try this again with roles if things turn out well.” He pauses. “What are your safewords?”

“The traffic lights, ‘Smaug’, and ‘no’.”

“And when I squeeze your hand twice, you —”

“Squeeze back twice.”

Bilbo nods. “To make sure you’re not falling too hard into subspace, I think I will be strictly enforcing the one-to-ten rule during the scene today. Do you remember what to do?”

“I tell you how hard you’re hitting me, with ten as the hardest,” says Thorin.

“And before I hit you?”

“I have to kiss the whip.”

“Good boy.” Bilbo presses a kiss to the back of Thorin’s head. “Make sure you aren’t being smothered by your pillows. Autoerotic asphyxiation is dangerous and I’d hate to have to explain this to the authorities.”

Thorin laughs, his laughter dying down somewhat as he feels the smooth sensation of Bilbo’s hand gliding across his naked ass. This is followed by the light tickle of leather as a flogger passes by.

The handle of the flogger is presented to his lips. Thorin kisses it.

“Good,” repeats Bilbo, ruffling his hair. “I’m going to warm you up a little with this. It’s soft and has a lot of heads; it hurts the least out of the other things I’ve brought.”

Thorin nods.

“I’ll do about ten lashes with it, and we can check in from there.”

Thorin nods again.

The flogger tickles against his backside. Bilbo’s voice is gentle. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Now,” Thorin offers, and pain blooms across his ass as the flogger comes down across it. He hisses sharply at it, but there’s hardly room to recover now — the tails of the flogger come back again and again, always hitting at the well-padded areas of his ass and thighs. Thorin grits his teeth at the pain, especially as it begins moving up to strike at his shoulders before running down the length of his back in a strange ticklish caress.

“How are we doing?” Bilbo asks.

“Was that ten lashes?” Thorin wonders. “It felt like less.”

“Do you want more?”

“Now, _please_.”

He can practically hear the smirk of the Consort in his next words. “Good boy,” Bilbo says, and his wrists dance with the flogger, striking Thorin over and over again. The pain is a bit less the second time around, and a delightfully fuzzy feeling is blooming out from places where the flogger has struck him.

It’s pain mixed most exquisitely with pleasure, and Thorin loves it.

Pretty soon, Bilbo is checking in with him again. The pain has dulled into a warm numbness, and he can’t feel the lashes of the flogger as intensely as before.

“You’re surprisingly quiet,” Bilbo remarks, letting the flogger trace gentle teasing circles around his ass.

“I’m still taking it in,” Thorin admits.

“If it hurts too much —”

“It’s about a three.” Thorin shakes his head. Bilbo’s hand joins the tails of the flogger in stroking at his reddened ass.

“Breathe,” suggests Bilbo. “Relax. Let things loose. If you want, I can tell you when to breathe out and hit you then. You’re more relaxed when you breathe out. Would you like to try that with a paddle, perhaps?”

Thorin nods, and shifts around in his restraints in an attempt to find a new way to relax. The paddle is then presented to him; he kisses it.

“Now,” he says.

“In,” instructs Bilbo, and Thorin inhales. “Out.” Thorin exhales. He then feels the paddle hit his backside. This feels different from the flogger; it’s more thud, less sting, and it reverberates through his entire body.

He continues to breathe to Bilbo’s words, feeling the thud of the paddle at every exhale. Some of his breaths come out more as a moan, getting more and more loud and intense as the pain also intensifies.

He gasps when the hits turn into gentle strokes, soothing caresses. “Good boy,” Bilbo says into his ear, kissing his cheek. “You’re taking this so well.”

Thorin moans in response, feeling light-headed and floaty, almost like he’s swimming through a dream. He feels Bilbo — his Consort — squeezing his hand twice, and he squeezes back, feeling so undeniably connected to the other man in this moment.

“What’s the number?”

“Five,” says Thorin.

“Do you want more like that, or do you want to try the crop?”

“What’s the difference?”

“The paddle’s a bit more thud; the crop is more sting. We can try out the crop and you can tell me which one you like more, how about that?”

Thorin nods. Bilbo presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Good boy,” he says, squeezing Thorin’s now comfortably sore ass. Moments later, the crop is presented to him. Thorin can’t help but giggle at it.

“It’s got a heart on it,” he remarks with a grin.

“So?” asks Bilbo.

Thorin giggles, but those giggles quickly turn to moans when he feels the crop’s velvet side stroking gently along his ass. “Now,” he gasps, and the crop sings and stings as it hits him. With each exhale, it comes back again and again, pain and pleasure mixing together and fogging up his mind.

“How are we feeling about the crop?” Bilbo’s voice takes a moment to register through the haze in Thorin’s brain. It takes another moment for him to find his own voice.

“Five,” replies Thorin.

“Which one did you like better?”

“I don’t know,” admits Thorin.

A pause. “I could use them interchangeably. Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

“And would you like me to go harder?”

“Please.”

And Bilbo gives it to him; this pain is even more intense than before, and Thorin is fairly certain that it’s going to leave marks. Even the flogger is hitting him harder now, and the exquisite combination of all of these different types of pain brings him into a whole new level of existence. He’s flying, he’s soaring above himself, he’s letting the pain bring him to new heights of pleasure and it seems almost impossible for him to come down at all.

But down he comes, with the gentle stroke of Bilbo’s hands against his back. He’s still fuzzy about the edges, but Bilbo is grounding him again with whispers of his name. He can feel, however distant, his wrists and ankles being unbound, and that’s when he realises that one of his feet has fallen asleep.

Thorin blinks, his muscles feeling more like molasses, slowly rolling over to look up at Bilbo bemusedly.

“You weren’t responding,” explains Bilbo, and Thorin feels the softness of a blanket being draped over his shoulders. He’s starting to shiver, and Bilbo holds him all the more tighter for it.

His mouth feels like sandpaper; his limbs feel like goo. All he can really do is melt into Bilbo’s touch, inhaling his Consort’s aftershave (he’ll never be able to smell woody musk without thinking of Bilbo, much like how he can’t drink Silver Needle or Earl Grey without thinking of Bilbo). He senses more than knows that a straw is being pressed to his lips, and he sucks by instinct, feeling the water refresh him.

“Can you speak?” asks Bilbo quietly. Thorin’s tongue feels like lead, so he shakes his head in response. Bilbo chuckles, pressing kisses all over his face and holding him tighter.

* * *

When Thorin finally regains a better sense of himself, he finds Bilbo rubbing soothing lotion onto his sore backside.

“How are we doing now?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin hums. “Excellent,” he says.

“I think that might still be your subspace talking,” says Bilbo with a soft chuckle. “Is this pressure okay, or would you like for me to be gentler?”

“It’s fine.” Thorin leans back into Bilbo’s touch, humming contentedly and closing his eyes. Bilbo chuckles, sending shivers down Thorin’s spine as it reverberates in his ear.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Bilbo speaks up again. “I brought the plug,” he says, and that causes Thorin to turn and look at him.

“How much —” he begins, but Bilbo hushes him.

“You can worry about that later,” he offers. “I thought it’d be nice to present it to you now, since you were so good earlier.”

Thorin can feel the grin tugging at his mouth in response to that. Bilbo leans over to the nightstand, grabbing a black box and pressing it into Thorin’s hands. He opens it, and inside the plug sparkles up at him.

“It’s a small one; we can work our way up to bigger ones next time. Notice that it’s slightly curved, so you can have it stimulating your prostate when you wear it, and it conforms to your body, so you can move and sit with it in.”

“And...how do I put it in?” asks Thorin. Bilbo chuckles.

“A lot of lube,” he suggests. “This plug is medical-grade stainless steel, so it’s body safe. It’s also non-porous, so you just have to wash it in hot water with soap after each use.”

Thorin hums, stroking the curve of the plug with a small grin. “Could we try it out?”

“Perhaps next time,” suggests Bilbo, his hands rubbing soothing circles over Thorin’s bum. “I’ll bring over some other toys, too, and we’ll experiment. Sounds okay with you?”

“Sounds excellent,” agrees Thorin, melting into Bilbo’s touch with a blissful sigh.

* * *

“How’s it going with Sir Dragonheart?” Dís asks the next time Thorin sees her.

He had been picking up his test results from the sexual health clinic at St Mary’s when he’d gotten her text inviting him over. Apparently, because Víli had taken Fíli with him up to Stratford-Upon-Avon for some father-son bonding — though Thorin wasn’t sure if watching a production of _Hamlet_ at the Globe necessarily counted as _good_ father-son bonding — Dís had taken the opportunity to invite Thorin over and interrogate him about his relationship with Bilbo over tea and sandwiches.

Thorin makes a face and takes a sip of his mug of English Breakfast. “I think _Bilbo_ would have an aneurysm if he ever heard you comparing him to Sir Dragonheart,” he says bluntly, remembering their last scene together and how gentle Bilbo had been with him afterwards.

Dís laughs. “Spill the beans, brother mine. What’s it like in his dungeon?”

Thorin blushes; it’s almost as if Dís could sense that his thoughts had strayed. “He doesn’t have one. Says the neighbours would ask too many questions.”

“Really?” Dís raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you spent your off days chained up in some dark dungeon in the bowels of London or something.”

“No,” says Thorin. “It’s not like that. Bilbo visits me at the penthouse, we have fun, and we talk about it a couple days later.”

“Why a couple of days?” His sister refills his mug. Thorin nods at her and takes another bite of his sandwich to delay his response.

“Because sometimes it takes a while to get out of the...” Thorin fumbles for a good substitute for ‘subspace’ that won’t require him to talk about something he’s still fuzzy about. “Mood,” he finishes lamely.

“Is it really that intense?” asks Dís, wide-eyed. “Sounds fantastic. Maybe I should bring it up with Víli —”

Thorin almost chokes on his tea. “Maybe you should borrow my books before you do that,” he interjects.

“I was mostly joking. Do I look like I’m in the right physical condition to get chained up and whipped?” Dís laughs. “Though, maybe once I’ve gotten the baby out, I’ll consider borrowing your books.”

Thorin laughs. “They won’t be going anywhere,” he says, and then changes the topic. “So, have you heard from Frerin while he’s been on tour? He sent me a picture of him in Paris, but that was last week.”

“Oh yeah, that was definitely last week. I think he’s in Dusseldorf now.” Dís pulls out her phone, scrolls through her texts. “He sent me a picture of this mug while he was in the red light district of Amsterdam on Saturday. I think it’s hilarious.”

Thorin looks over, and raises an eyebrow at it. “Is that cup’s handle really a —”

“Yes! Isn’t it adorable?”

“For some reason I think that wouldn’t look out of place at Bag End,” Thorin muses.

“I bet Mr Baggins sells them in the winter. Nothing like drinking hot chocolate out of a mug with a penis handle.”

Thorin laughs; the mental image of Bilbo drinking Silver Needle with such a cup is almost intoxicating. “I’ll make sure to bring it up sometime,” he says.

“Any news on my discount?”

Thorin grins cheekily at her. “He says ‘maybe on your birthday’.”

Dís harrumphs.


	9. Subdrop

The drop hits him unexpectedly.

It’s only been a couple days after the scene and his conversation with Dís. Bilbo has been checking in on him every morning, asking him how he feels, telling him to text him right away if something is wrong, and yet nothing _had_ been wrong. Until now, that is.

It’s such a beautiful Tuesday, and yet it takes Thorin ages to get out bed, ages to shower, ages to eat. Nothing tastes good, nothing looks interesting, and nothing seems right.

He finds himself staring at a blank wall for ten minutes, listless and moody. His limbs feel like lead, a burden to be dragged around. His phone pings with a new message, and he ignores it, preferring instead to wrap himself up in the soft blanket Bilbo had left behind from the last scene and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

His phone starts sending out a barrage of message sounds. Thorin ignores that, too. It’s only when it rings with an incoming call that he finally picks it up. Bilbo is calling him.

“Thorin!” The other man’s voice sounds panicked. Thorin’s brows furrow.

“What?” he demands, and it comes out harsher than he intended.

There’s a pause. “Are you alright?” Bilbo’s voice asks suspiciously.

“Do I sound like it?” Thorin asks sarcastically, regretting the words almost as soon as they fly out of his mouth.

Another pause. “You really don’t sound well. I’m coming over.”

“No, you don’t —”

“I am,” insists Bilbo. “Rosie and Casey can handle things. You sound like you’re in subdrop, and you need to be cared for. Do you have a blanket on hand?”

Thorin grumbles an affirmative.

“Good. I’ll be over soon. Hang in there, all right?”

Thorin grunts. There’s a click as the line goes dead, and he resists the urge to fling his phone across the room. Instead he lets it clatter to the coffee table and curls himself tighter into the blanket.

He’s so exhausted and done with everything, but the day’s barely begun, and sooner or later someone from the office — probably Dwalin, his secretary — was going to call and ask why he hasn’t shown up yet. And then he’d have to have some sort of explanation.

The buzzer rings half an hour later. With great effort, Thorin rises to his feet and plods over to the door to answer it. He opens it to find Bilbo there, looking like he’d rushed over from Bag End. The other man looks him up and down, and steps over the threshold.

“Looks like you dropped pretty hard,” Bilbo remarks as Thorin slams the door closed and follows him into the living room area. Thorin flops down onto the sofa, rubbing his head.

“I need a drink,” he grumbles.

“Yes, but not of alcohol,” reasons Bilbo.

“Why not?” asks Thorin.

“Because you need vitamins.” Bilbo busies himself with poking through Thorin’s cabinets again. “I think I remember seeing some milk in your fridge the last time I was here.”

Thorin groans loudly and turns away from Bilbo on the couch. “Help yourself to whatever,” he says gruffly. Bilbo chuckles.

“I’m not the one who needs to eat,” he says. “I’ll fix you a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. That alright with you?”

Thorin turns and looks up at him. “Do whatever,” he says, before turning around again. He hears a sigh, and moments later Bilbo is at his side, enfolding him into a hug, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“Subdrop gets even the best of us,” he says.

“Is that what this is?” wonders Thorin. “Subdrop?”

“Yes,” replies Bilbo. “Because of elevated levels of cortisol and prolactin during scenes, sometimes the sub will experience moodiness and some of the symptoms of depression after the scene. It’s part of the reason why aftercare is so important, and why I’ve been checking in on you all the time. Subdrop can happen when you least expect it to.”

Thorin sighs, leaning into Bilbo’s side. Bilbo presses kisses to the top of his head, runs his hands through his hair.

“I’ve never seen such a dramatic drop, though,” he muses. Thorin groans, and Bilbo chuckles, wrapping his arms a little tighter around him and pressing kisses all over his head. “Still, that means I’ll have to take extra good care of you! Come on, let’s get ourselves into the kitchen at least, so I can feed you properly.”

Moments later Thorin is at the counter, staring down at the sandwich on his plate. It’s whole wheat, with ham and cheese, and there’s some baby carrots and cherry tomatoes on the side. Bilbo sits down at the stool next to him, sets down a glass of milk next to the plate, and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Eat,” he commands, and Thorin obeys immediately. Bilbo relaxes then, all hints of the Consort slipping from him as he watches Thorin eat.

When Thorin is finished, Bilbo rewards him by peppering his face and beard with kisses. Thorin grumbles at it, but Bilbo had been right — putting some food into his body helped.

“Bilbo,” he murmurs, nuzzling into his partner’s embrace, and Bilbo responds with more kisses and gentle touches. Thorin sighs happily at that, pulling Bilbo as close as he could get without having either of them fall out of their stools.

Thorin’s phone rings at that moment. Bilbo grabs it from the coffee table and hands it to Thorin, who groans when he sees the display. Sure enough, it’s Dwalin.

“Work?” Bilbo asks. Thorin nods. Bilbo chuckles. “How much do you like your work?”

Thorin groans. “Not right now,” he says.

“Then tell them you’re sick,” replies Bilbo. “Mental health is just as important as physical health, especially for someone in your position.”

Thorin sighs and answers the phone. “Hello, Dwalin,” he says, his eyes still fixed on Bilbo.

“Where are you?” his secretary demands. “There’s a line of people trying to get a hold of you! Glóin’s taking up half of that line; he’s been bothering me about your already-late response to his budget proposal for the past hour. Please tell me you’ll be here soon.”

“I can’t,” says Thorin.

A pause. “What are you up to now?” groans Dwalin.

“I’m sick,” replies Thorin, somewhat testily.

“You don’t sound sick.”

Thorin coughs loudly. “I am,” he insists.

Dwalin makes a sceptical noise, but Thorin doesn’t hear what he has to say next, because Bilbo has taken the phone from him.

“Hello!. Are you Mr Oakenshield’s assistant?” Bilbo asks cheerily. Thorin glares at him. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s not coming into work today.” Another pause. “Who am I? I’m his partner. Yes. Yes, _that_ kind of partner. No, he legitimately cannot come to the office today. He’s hypoglycaemic and moody. Even if he came into work he wouldn’t be able to handle all those busybodies trying to talk to him. He’s glaring at me right now; I’d hate to release him to the general public. Have a nice day!” And then he hangs up.

Thorin gapes at him. “Dwalin’s going to kill both of us,” he groans.

“Someone had to put the truth out there,” replies Bilbo tartly, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “Want to go see a film? It might help you get out of the drop.”

Thorin nods. “Something light?” he asks.

“Of course,” agrees Bilbo with a smile.

* * *

The next day, Dís calls him up and insists he come over to help her paint the nursery for the baby. Thorin acquiesces, mostly because Bilbo had left him with the express order to do things that’ll keep him happily busy and engaged. Work had been another option, obviously, but it pales in comparison to helping Dís cover the walls of the nursery in a plethora of colours.

“I thought the ultrasound techs said that the baby was a boy,” Thorin says as Dís stencils in flowers and rocketships on one of the walls.

“Technicians err,” replies Dís, her voice slightly muffled through a respirator, “and I don’t want the baby to enter into this world with restrictive gender roles on their nursery walls.”

“Have you picked out any names?”

Dís shrugs. “Víli likes the name ‘Kíli’. I just hope my children don’t become the butt of all the nursery school jokes if their names end up rhyming.”

“I’m sure Fíli would put an end to it if that happened,” Thorin reasons as he adjusts his own paint mask.

Dís chuckles. “The baby shower’s going to be in two months. I expect to see both you and Bilbo there,” she says. “And it doesn’t matter what colour you make the gift, so please don’t limit yourself to blue.”

“What if I happen to like the colour?”

“You’re not the one who’s going to be using the onesies,” retorts Dís.

Thorin snorts, and then realises something. “You used his first name. Bilbo’s, that is.”

“I did,” says Dís neutrally.

“That’s a new thing. You’ve only been calling him Mr Baggins in the past.”

“Or Sir Dragonheart.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

Dís laughs. “How are you doing? Are you feeling better?”

“Who told you I was anything but?” demands Thorin.

“Your Sir Dragonheart,” replies Dís cheekily.

Thorin growls. “Is that how you’re suddenly on a first-name basis with him?”

“That, and the fact that I’ve actually bought toys from him.” Dís winks. “Though, let’s be honest: would you rather be at the office or helping me with this?”

Thorin grumbles. She has a point. He goes to pick up a stencil, pretending not to notice her pleased expression as he does so.

The pitter-patter of Fíli’s feet resounds in the hall outside the nursery before the boy pokes his head into the nursery, nose wrinkling. “Ew, what’s this smell?”

“It’s paint, Fee,” says Dís in an indulgent voice.

Fíli scowls. “My paints don’t smell like that,” he says.

“Because your paints were made for you. This is grown-up paint.”

“Why does everything about growing up stink so much?” mutters the little boy, and Thorin has to stifle a chuckle at how true it was.

“Not everything about it stinks,” he says. Fíli shrugs.

“Mum has to eat pickles because the baby wants her to. Now she’s using grown-up paint.” He pauses. “Is this the baby’s room?”

“Yup,” says Dís.

“So the baby’s making her use stinky paint,” declares Fíli, in an excellent show of four-year-old logic.

“Oh, I’m sure the baby doesn’t like the smell of this paint any more than you do,” says Dís. “They’re really kicking up a storm in here.”

Fíli tries to venture into the room in an attempt to confirm for himself that his incoming sibling was indeed kicking, but before he can even make it past the threshold he is swept up, squealing, by Thorin’s brother in law. Víli Durin is blond like his son, blond and cheery with a well-trimmed beard that Dís sometimes refers to as the ‘cunt tickler’. Thorin thinks that is far too much information on his brother-in-law than he cares to have.

“There you are, little devil!” Víli exclaims, as Fíli laughs and squirms in his arms. “Come on, let’s not bother Mummy and Uncle Thorin.”

“The baby makes Mum do stinky things!” Fíli protests through his laughter. “I wanted to know what the smell was!”

“Why don’t we go out into the backyard, then? That way, the smell won’t bother you.” Víli sends them a somewhat exasperated look.

“It’s only going to get worse from here on out,” Dís remarks with a dry chuckle. “He’s going to start complaining about burps and diapers next.”

“He’s got a sensitive nose,” Víli reasons, shrugging. “We’ll just have to keep him far from the nursery once Kee is here.”

“I haven’t agreed to the name ‘Kíli’ yet,” Dís points out.

“Well, in my mind they’re already ‘Kíli’, so you’re going to have to put up with it for now,” retorts Víli, smiling and winking as he does so. Dís looks like she’d like to swat him with her paintbrush.

Thorin decides to take that moment to interject. “How was the trip to Stratford?” he asks. “I can’t imagine many four-year-olds can boast about having seen _Hamlet_.”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Víli. “You’re never too young for Shakespeare.”

“Isn’t Shakespeare full of dirty jokes?”

“Those can always be explained to him when he’s older.” Víli laughs.

Dís rolls her eyes. “He’s trying to make Fíli his fellow Shakespearean nerd, I think,” she says. “Jury’s still out on whether or not it’s working.”

“Nothing wrong with escaping work once in a while,” Thorin reasons.

Dís chuckles. “ _You’d_ know that all too well,” she says with a grin. Thorin pretends he doesn’t hear her.

* * *

They seem to have fallen into a comfortable pattern together. On most Fridays, Bilbo would visit Thorin after work and they’d have dinner together. Not every meeting involves a scene or sex; there are Fridays where they’d just watch a film, complete with Thorin yelling unsolicited advice at the characters on the screen and Bilbo curled into his side, laughing through mouthfuls of popcorn.

It’s almost remarkable how time works with Bilbo thrown into the equation. So much of the week passes in a blur of anticipation until the very last hours before five o’clock on Friday afternoons. The clocks all slow to a crawl then, perhaps specifically to mock Thorin as he sits in his office staring impatiently at them.

They’re caught up in the middle of negotiations with an American corporation, which on good days feels like an uphill battle. The representatives of Gundabad Enterprises are all blustering businessmen with perhaps one brain cell to share amongst the collective, yet are about as unmovable as mountains in their negotiations. Thorin somes wonders why he couldn’t just tell them all to fuck off, but it’s often the combined glares of Dwalin and Glóin that stay his hand.

 _We need the overseas investment_ , Glóin insists. Sometimes Thorin hates the truth. It’s times like these that he’s grateful for Bilbo’s presence in his life. Visits from his Consort feel like the ultimate reward for not royally screwing things up all week.

“I forgot to tell you about the test results the last time you were here,” Thorin tells Bilbo after dinner one warm April evening. They’re outside on the terrace of his penthouse apartment, the spring breeze ruffling the trees in Belgrave Square park not too far away.

Bilbo looks up from his glass of wine and raises an eyebrow at Thorin. “It’s alright,” he says. “We all forget things. Do you have them now?”

Thorin heads back inside to get the envelope from his office. Moments later he is back, setting said envelope on the table in front of Bilbo.

“Here, look it over while I do the dishes,” he offers.

“You don’t have to do the dishes every time — we never negotiated — I can — “ Bilbo’s protestations are cut off by Thorin’s finger to his lips and a shake of his head.

“This is my house,” he insists. “I can do my own damn dishes in my own damn house.”

Bilbo sighs, taking the envelope instead as Thorin carries the dishes back into the house.

By the time he returns outside, Bilbo has finished reading the results and has a slip of paper with his own results to show Thorin. “Both negative,” the other man says with a smile. Thorin glances down at the paper for confirmation.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“We have a conversation about barrier protection, and which ones we might want to remove.”

“I’m fine with the current system,” Thorin replies.

“So am I,” agrees Bilbo. “But this also means that we don’t need condoms for manual or oral sex now, if you find that more convenient for you.”

“We could do that, but it’ll be more of a mess to clean up,” Thorin points out.

Bilbo chuckles. “Fair enough. I just wanted that on the table, though. And, of course, we’d still have to use all of the barriers if we add other people to our scenes —” Once again, he’s cut off by Thorin’s finger against his lips, but this time it’s followed by a kiss.

“You’re all I need,” insists Thorin, extending a hand to draw Bilbo to his feet.

“Aww,” Bilbo coos, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s waist. “Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have you here in my life.”

Thorin splutters and blushes at that. “I’m not sure how I should respond to that. You never fail to make me tongue-tied.”

“I could tie up other parts of you that aren’t your tongue,” replies Bilbo smoothly, with a wink, and then to Thorin’s surprise, the shorter man dips him down for a kiss.

Thorin’s intoxicated the moment Bilbo’s lips meet his. Not even the strongest liquor could have sent such dizzy elation shooting through his veins like Bilbo’s kisses could. He gives himself in to this sensation, to pleasure, to Bilbo. It’s all that matters in this moment.

Bilbo sets him back on his feet soon after that. “God, I’ll have to go to the gym more often if you expect me to dip you like that for longer periods of time,” he protests. Thorin laughs, looping his arms around Bilbo’s waist and diving in for another kiss. Bilbo gives it to him readily, nipping his lips as they part.

“Ready to get tied up?” he asks. Thorin presses their bodies closer, and Bilbo’s eyebrows arch as Thorin’s erection presses up against his leg. “You impatient naughty boy, you,” chides his Consort, before leading them back into the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, gals, and folks of other gender expressions, there's [fanart for this fic now](http://aurasama.tumblr.com/post/114167179988/oh-i-know-im-getting-wild-when-you-look-at-me)! Does that make me one of the cool kids?  
> Go tell the lovely aurasama how much you like it!


	10. Sensation Play

His Consort has tied him to the foot of the bed with his arms behind him, the ropes silken and snug against his wrists. Thorin gives a couple tugs at them, and then looks over to where his Consort stands in his blue velvet robes.

“How are those ropes, Your Majesty?” his Consort purrs, walking over with a sashay that speaks danger in each sway. It sends thrills up Thorin’s spine, a feeling compounded by his own helplessness. Bound and bared before his Consort, with his legs spread with the help of a spreader bar, Thorin has never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so desired.

Thorin tugs at the ropes. They slide, silken-soft, against his wrists; he can squirm, but he can’t escape. His Consort reaches over, slips a finger in between his wrist and the rope, and grins.

“Perfect,” he breathes in Thorin’s ear. “Just the way I want it.”

“Beloved,” murmurs Thorin, looking down at his Consort, whose smile is that perfect balance between sweet and dangerous. His Consort trails a finger along the shaft of his cock, causing him to gasp.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” his Consort says, and then pinches Thorin’s nipples with both hands, slowly counting down from twenty as he holds on. Thorin feels a sharp spike of pain, one that intensifies as the seconds tick down and the pressure slowly increases. Finally, his Consort reaches one, releases his hands, and Thorin muffles his gasps against his Consort’s lips as he’s hit with the first wave of pleasure.

“Good boy,” murmurs his Consort. “How did you like that?”

Thorin moans. A light chastising smack to his cheek.

“That’s not a response.”

“Again,” says Thorin hoarsely.

“Much better,” replies his Consort, kissing his cheek and pinching his nipples again. Once more he counts down, his forehead pressed to Thorin’s as he does so. At one, he releases once more. There’s a dim, but pleasant buzzing in Thorin’s mind.

His Consort crosses over to a table with a bowl of ice, a lit candle, and several other toys, picking up a black silken blindfold and returning to Thorin’s side.

“I’m going to blind you now, Your Majesty,” he says quietly. “It’ll help you experience what’s to come more intensely.”

Thorin nods, and his Consort ties the blindfold around his head. He stands there, listening intently to his Consort’s footsteps. Moments later, he gasps as he feels a rosy warmth gliding down his chest, smelling faintly of lavender.

“This is soy wax,” his Consort whispers in his ear. “It’s not hot enough to burn you. Does it feel good, Your Majesty?”

Thorin nods. His Consort reaches out, massages the sweet-smelling wax into his chest with deft fingers. Thorin moans at the touch, feeling the buzzing in his head increase at his Consort’s sensual touch.

Warmth is replaced by icy cold, as he feels an ice cube glide along the curve of his neck. His breath comes in a shudder now, goosebumps rising on his skin as his body reacts to the delightful mix of warmth and chill, of fire and ice.

The buzzing in Thorin’s head intensifies into spinning as the blood in his body moves downwards in his arousal. He sways a little, groaning, but his Consort seems unaware of his sudden change in equilibrium.

At the next drizzle of warmth on his abdomen, Thorin sways a little more. His Consort’s hands pause. Thorin takes that opportunity to gasp “Red!” and immediately the blindfold is removed from his eyes, and Bilbo is there, peering confusedly at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I’m...I’m a bit dizzy,” admits Thorin, blushing. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” says Bilbo. “Let me cut you out of these ropes — “

“Wait!” It comes out louder and more desperate than what Thorin would’ve liked, but Bilbo pauses nonetheless. “Could we do this lying down? I want this to happen, just not…” Thorin blushes harder. “Just not standing up.” A pause. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” repeats Bilbo. “Your comfort is more important. Why don’t I tie you into a position much better for lying down?”

Pretty soon, Thorin is lying supine on the bed, wrists bound above his head and legs separated by the under-the-bed restraints. His Consort crawls onto the bed in between his legs, and the sight of him hovering just inches from his cock is enough to send Thorin right back into the mood.

“Would you still like to be blindfolded, my pet king?” whispers his Consort.

Thorin shakes his head. “I wish to see you, Beloved,” he says. His Consort chuckles, kissing the tip of his cock languidly. Thorin’s eyes almost roll back in his head.

“You’re such a good boy,” purrs his Consort from around his cock, and Thorin’s heart pounds faster in his chest as his Consort pulls away, coming back with a chip of ice in his hands.

Languidly, his Consort pops the ice into his mouth, letting it melt partially on his tongue before leaning down to kiss Thorin thoroughly, slipping the ice from his mouth into Thorin’s. Thorin gasps, shivering as his Consort kisses an icy trail down his jaw and neck, tongue chilly against his heated skin.

“Beloved,” moans Thorin, “please.”

“Please what?”

“Please kiss me down...down there.”

“Down where?” his Consort asks, raising an eyebrow.

Thorin blushes. “My… my cock, Beloved. I want… I want you to kiss me there.”

“Who am I to deny my king?” replies his Consort with a wicked grin, and moments later Thorin cries out at the feeling of ice-chilled lips against his cock. It takes him a couple seconds to realise that it’s Bilbo’s lips directly against his skin, no condom in between — and he comes.

His Consort splutters slightly at the unexpected climax. Thorin feels dirty embarrassment creeping into his cheeks at that.

“Did I say you could come?” asks his Consort quietly. Thorin shakes his head, biting his bottom in lip in guilt. His Consort sighs, wipes some of Thorin’s come from his mouth, and sits up.

“You naughty boy, look at the mess you’ve made,” he says, and Thorin flushes harder as he looks down at himself. “So impatient, coming without permission.”

“I’m sorry, my Beloved,” says Thorin.

“Fortunately for you, I have an excellent remedy for this,” replies his Consort.

“Please don’t say you’ll make me do lines,” mutters Thorin.

“Oh no, that’s not the mood I’m looking for.” His Consort goes back to the table, and returns with the plug from last week, a pair of gloves, and lube. “I’m just not going to let you come.”

Thorin swallows in a strange mixture of dread and anticipation. His Consort lets his hands ghost along his skin, fondling Thorin’s limp cock with a teasing smile. Thorin muffles a groan by biting his own lip.

“Have you tried out your plug at all?” his Consort asks. Thorin shakes his head. “Would you like to?”

Thorin nods. “I thought you were punishing me,” he says.

“Oh, I am,” replies his Consort cheerily. “Remember, this plug is designed to rub up against your prostate. You’ll be seeing stars, but you won’t be allowed to come until I say you can.”

Thorin exhales. “You _tease_.”

“And _you’re_ impatient,” retorts his Consort with a playful nip to his lips. He snaps on the glove and drizzles liberal amounts of lube onto his fingers. All of the breath in Thorin’s lungs flees him in a moan as his Consort’s fingers prod at his entrance.

“Oh god,” Thorin groans as two of his Consort’s fingers press into him. He writhes as those fingers slide into him, warm and slick with lube. His other hand strokes Thorin’s cock back to hardness, sending his body into a relaxed mess of pleasure with every new stroke.

“Do you like that?” asks his Consort. “You like that, don’t you, you dirty king. You love my fingers inside you.” He crooks his fingers to brush up against Thorin’s prostate. Thorin gasps. “And you can’t wait for something bigger, something fuller. You can’t wait for that plug to fill you up, preparing your ass for my cock.”

Thorin moans, loud and wanton. Every one of his Consort’s words sends shivers down his spine. Who knew Bilbo had such a proclivity for dirty talk? “Beloved, I —”

“Shush,” says his Consort, pressing the finger of his other hand to Thorin’s lips. He then withdraws his fingers, removes the glove, and grabs the plug. Thorin watches him drizzle more lube onto the plug, trembling in anticipation as he does so.

“This is silicone-based,” his Consort says, a hint of Bilbo showing through in his softer smile. “It’s not going to dry up inside you. Now, come and be a good boy for me.”

Thorin gasps when he first feels the plug teasing at his hole. His Consort is patient with him, pausing and stroking his cock whenever he tenses at the pressure. And when it does finally enter, Thorin throws his head back and moans loudly at the fullness inside him.

“Good boy,” says his Consort, kissing him as he sets the plug in place. “Doesn’t it fill you right up? Don’t you wish it was me instead?”

Thorin moans loudly at the prospect. His Consort chuckles, bites down on Thorin’s earlobe before pulling his hands away. Closing his eyes, Thorin revels in the plug’s fullness before he hears the humming of a vibrator from the table.

He feels more than sees the vibrator running slowly up and down his shaft, and the pace it sets is torturously wonderful; he feels bombarded by sensation in all directions, compounded by the teasing of the plug inside him.

His Consort pulls the vibrator away just as Thorin finds himself teetering at the edge of climax, causing him to mewl in disappointment. That earns him a small chastising smack to the thigh. “Remember, this is to teach you a lesson, naughty boy,” his Consort whispers in his ear, tongue darting out to flick at his earlobe. Thorin moans.

The vibrator returns just when his breathing rate returns to normal, and Thorin strains against the ropes and restraints as he bucks his hips upwards into the sensation, as he writhes under his Consort’s punishingly teasing touches. Again it is taken away when he nears the edge, again it returns when he has eased back. It’s torturous, and yet Thorin still arches towards the vibrator all the same, hoping maybe this time his Consort will let him finish.

“Have you learnt your lesson, my pet king?” asks his Consort after the fourth time.

Thorin nods. “Please,” he says.

“Please what?” His Consort asks, fingers already trailing down Thorin’s abdomen.

“Please let me come,” whispers Thorin, arching up into his Consort’s touch.

“Good boy,” murmurs his Consort, his expression softening. “Yes, you may.”

And he strokes Thorin to an intense and dizzying orgasm.

* * *

After Thorin has been freed from his restraints and the toys are cleaned and put away, Bilbo runs them a bubble bath in the big tub in the master bathroom. Thorin sinks into the bubbles with a blissful sigh, watching the robe of the Consort dropping from Bilbo’s shoulders and pool in blue velvet around his ankles. 

“You’re so beautiful,” murmurs Thorin as Bilbo clambers into the tub with him, settling between his legs once again. Thorin personally thinks that he could probably live the rest of his life quite happily with Bilbo between his legs.

“I could say the same for you,” murmurs Bilbo, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s neck. “Now come, sit between my legs instead so I can wash your hair.”

That, Thorin reckons, might be the only thing better than living with Bilbo between his legs. His partner’s hand is soothing as it cards through his hair, massaging gentle circles into his scalp. He leans back, closing his eyes, letting himself drift in a world where nothing else matters but the feeling of Bilbo’s hands in his hair.

“Your sister came in to Bag End the other day,” Bilbo says after a moment of blissful silence. “When’s the baby due?”

“July, I think,” says Thorin somewhat distractedly. “There’s going to be a shower in June and she’s invited you.”

“Not a lot of people invite _me_ to their baby showers,” muses Bilbo, though his voice is light. “Though I’m sure that I’ve contributed indirectly to a great deal of conceptions in London.”

“I’m sure you’ve prevented just as many,” Thorin adds, grinning.

“True,” Bilbo concedes. There’s a pause. “Speaking of conceptions, my cousin Prim is pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” says Thorin.

“No need to congratulate me. I didn’t help with this one; the in-vitro clinic she went to did.”

“Oh.” Thorin swallows. “Has she been trying for a while?”

“A couple of years,” murmurs Bilbo. “I found out yesterday at dinner. She and her husband are over the moon.”

“I’m glad of it,” says Thorin. “My incoming nibling might just get a playmate.”

Bilbo laughs. “Have the doctors tried assigning a gender to the child?”

“They think it’s a boy,” says Thorin, parroting what Dís from the last time he saw her. “But Dís is determined to raise the child in a gender-neutral environment, and I’m not about to discourage her.”

“Nor I,” agrees Bilbo, humming as he finishes massaging Thorin’s scalp. “You can rinse now.”

Thorin leans back so that his hairline is submerged in the warm sudsy water. “I want to meet your cousin,” he says after a moment. “You know my sister; it’s only fair.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” replies Bilbo. “You could come to dinner next Thursday, for example.”

Thorin raises his head out of the water and grins. “I’d like that.”

* * *

He dreams of helplessness, of being bound and subjected to pleasure against his will. He dreams of Bilbo’s gentle touch turning rough and ruthless, his kisses becoming hard and possessive. He dreams of being captured, of being ravished, of protesting an act that he ultimately cannot resist.

Thorin jolts awake in a cold sweat. He looks down next to him where Bilbo lies asleep, his face angelic in the light from the window. Outside London distantly roars, grounding Thorin again as he takes several deep breaths to slow down his racing heart.

He is both terrified and exhilarated by this dream. That sits strangely in his chest, that cocktail of guilt and shame and arousal. Bilbo would never agree to reenacting something like that. Or rather, he would, but only begrudgingly, and Thorin doesn’t want to make him do something he wouldn’t do enthusiastically.

Slowly, he lies back down next to Bilbo, marvelling at how much space the other man takes up. He used to feel lonely lying in it with only the dark to keep him company. It’s almost as if they’ve all been waiting for Bilbo to fill the other side.

At the same time, he can’t help but wonder when the other shoe will drop, when all of this will have turned out to be too good to be true. He had never been a romantic, simply because he’d spent so much of his life thinking there wasn’t going to be someone who’d make his heart race like this. And he would’ve been fine with being mostly alone, with fostering platonic bonds interspersed with sporadic sexual encounters.

Now he lies awake wondering what’s changed. Has _he_ changed? He knows he wants to make this work, wants to hold onto what he has with Bilbo for as long as he can. But deep down, he still knows the fear of attachment, of commitment, of recognising that he and Bilbo might just be in this relationship for more than just endorphin highs and aftercare. Bilbo is his partner now, but in the sleepless hours of early morning, Thorin still wonders if that now has an expiration date.

For all he knows, it might be sooner than even he could anticipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Bilbo didn't have the chance to expound on the types of rope used for bondage, I will: the best kinds are soft nylon, non-abrasive, with a length between 7-40ft, the latter being used for full-body bondage and other more complicated things. When tying someone up, make sure to keep the rope a finger-width distance from the skin.
> 
> As hot as it might sound, don't use scarves or belts for bondage because it tightens when you pull at it, and abrasions and nerve damage are not sexy. 
> 
> Also please don't loop the rope around the neck, because that's plain dangerous. Some more complex bondage forms may also require panic snaps and other mechanisms in place that will help distribute the weight of the bound person, especially in the event of an emergency.


	11. The Shadow of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the title of the chapter you can probably safely assume that there will be discussions of backstories in this chapter. Warning for allusions to a past abusive relationship!

Primula Brandybuck’s house in Surrey is a little suburban thing with a well-manicured front lawn and lace curtains at the windows, rather like all the other houses on the street. Neighbours peer out of their windows as Thorin’s car pulls up to the drive, and duck out of sight as he gets out and glares at them.

“Do you always get the neighbours staring at you when you come visiting?” Thorin asks as he opens the door to the car for Bilbo.

“They stopped gawking at me about five years ago,” says Bilbo as he clambers out, straightening his bow tie. “It’s you they’re interested in. You’re driving a car that most of the people on this street are dying to own.”

Thorin casts a look back at his Mercedes. “What, that old thing?”

Bilbo giggles. “Shush, you’ll make Myrtle self-conscious,” he says.

“You named my car already,” Thorin demands incredulously.

“She looks like a Myrtle to me,” retorts Bilbo with a shrug.

Thorin chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not clue the neighbours in on some of my other proclivities.” Bilbo steps up to the front door and rings the doorbell, before folding his arms behind his back.

Thorin follows him. “Are you referring to BDSM, or me as your partner?”

“Whichever one they’re more curious about,” replies Bilbo shortly.

The door opens at that moment, and Primula Brandybuck, a handsome brunette in her thirties, steps out in a salmon-coloured dress. She squeals at the sight at her cousin, as if she hadn’t seen him for far longer than a week.

“Bilbo, dearie! Come on, come in, you’re just in time; Drogo just got the roast beef out of the oven!” She practically drags Bilbo inside before turning to Thorin. Thorin smiles back awkwardly, extending a hand for her to shake.

“Hello,” he offers.

“You must be Thorin Oakenshield,” she says, her blue eyes warm. “It’s _so_ nice to meet you. You look much more handsome than the last one.”

“The last one?” echoes Thorin.

“ _Prim_ ,” groans Bilbo, but Primula pays him no mind.

“Yes, the last one was downright dreadful. No sense of manners. You look much more promising.”

Thorin chuckles sheepishly. “My grandmum used to say that my table manners were the worst she’d ever seen,” he says.

“Oh no, not table manners,” says Primula, shaking her head. “Though those wouldn’t hurt, obviously. I’m talking…” she trails off, and Thorin then notices that Bilbo seems very withdrawn.

“ _Prim_ ,” Bilbo repeats, his voice strained.

Primula sighs. “Tell you later,” she says, and Thorin can’t help but wonder if he’s starting to see a pattern.

* * *

Drogo, Primula’s husband, is a quiet but cheery fellow whose roast beef, as Thorin quickly learns, is to die for.

“How are the students?” Bilbo asks him once they’re tucking into dinner properly. Thorin only vaguely tunes in to the conversation; he’s too busy having a small spiritual moment with the roast beef currently melting in his mouth.

“The same as ever,” says Drogo. “Which, of course, means they’re downright dreadful.”

Primula laughs. “They’re actually a much better crowd this semester,” she says in a stage whisper.

“There are diamonds in the rough,” concedes Drogo, “but the majority of them are in the class for a graduation requirement, which means they’re completely disinterested in what I have to say.”

Thorin cuts himself another slice of roast beef. “What do you teach?” he asks.

“Maths,” says Drogo. “Mostly introductory courses, though, and some statistics. My students are roughly divided between smartasses who don’t listen in class because they think they already know the subject matter, and those poor souls who actually need the maths grounding that the courses offer, but can’t get their voices heard in class over the smartasses.”

“A terrible combination,” agrees Bilbo. “I could never take large maths classes for that same reason. But what about you, Prim? How’s work?”

“Busy,” Primula replies, “though the other day some bloke came into A&E after losing a vibrator up his ass. Not everyone seems to have gotten your memo about anal toys, I think.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m guessing he’s learnt his lesson now,” he remarks drily. Primula laughs, and then turns to Thorin, smiling.

“What do you do for a living, Thorin?”

Thorin coughs. “Er. I’m managing director of Erebor Engineering,” he says, chuckling sheepishly.

Primula raises an eyebrow. “What a catch, Bilbo!” she declares, still grinning at Thorin, who’s now blushing about the same shade as his wine. Bilbo chuckles.

“Prim is a little overzealous about her need to see me paired off before I’m forty,” he explains to Thorin, but Primula clucks her tongue at him.

“Oh, ye of little faith, Bilbo! I’ve told you, folks like me who’ve been socialised as female have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. I _hated_ that von Brandt fellow the moment I met him, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Who’s von Brandt?” asks Thorin, brows furrowing.

“None of your business,” snaps Bilbo, and that must’ve been the harshest tone of voice Thorin has ever heard the man use with him. Clearly a nerve had been struck.

“Bilbo —” Primula begins, evidently trying to placate her cousin, but neither Thorin nor Bilbo pay any attention to her.

“Oh, I think it is,” says Thorin. “It’s upsetting you, so clearly it’s my business to know why.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Bilbo’s knuckles are white as they grip his fork and knife.

“Why not?”

Primula and Drogo are looking between the two of them like spectators at a tennis match. Thorin can feel his face heating up from that awful combination of embarrassment and anger.

Bilbo angrily stabs at his meat. “I don’t enquire after your ex-partners, do I? You could at least return the favour.”

“This isn’t the first time that I’ve heard that you’ve been in a bad relationship in the past,” Thorin says quietly. Bilbo glares. “Can’t I, as someone who cares about you, express my concerns?”

Bilbo rises from the table. “Your concerns are unfounded,” he snarls, before turning tail and stalking into the kitchen. Thorin watches him go, eyes wide. Primula sighs.

“I probably shouldn’t have brought it up,” she sighs. “He gets touchy about his past.”

“We all do,” says Thorin with a sigh.

“The thing is, all of it could have been so easily avoided.” Primula dabs at her mouth with a napkin, smiling sadly. “He hates that I was right about that man in the end; I think he thinks it’s his own fault that he failed to see what I saw before it was too late.” She pauses. “Though I’m sure we’re all relieved that they’re no longer involved.”

“What was so awful about this von Brandt person?” asks Thorin.

Primula laughs. “Bilbo invited him over for dinner once, but all the man would do was make unreasonable demands from everyone and look down on us for not having caviar or Dom Perignon. Dreadful manners. And the way he treated Bilbo was like...was like as if he owned him. And Bilbo didn’t make a single peep about any of it.”

Thorin swallows, unable to reconcile the mental image that Primula had drawn up of the past Bilbo with the one currently fuming in the kitchen. What had changed?

“Why?” he asks.

“Why didn’t he speak up, you mean?” Primula laughs. “How would I know? What Bilbo does — what I presume the two of you do together — creates a lot of illusions, makes healthy relationships appear to outsiders as unhealthy ones. I know that much. But there was something...off about the one he had with Smaug von Brandt. The man could’ve told my cousin to jump, and he’d have jumped even without asking ‘how high’.”

Thorin looks towards the kitchen, dark and quiet without any signs of life within. Slowly, he rises to his feet.

“I need to talk to him,” he says.

“If that’s what you think will work,” replies Primula, with a shrug. “I’m sorry I even opened up this can of worms in the first place.”

“No, it was already open,” says Thorin, as he collects his plate and heads into the kitchen.

* * *

The lights in the kitchen flicker on when Thorin enters, revealing Bilbo sitting motionlessly at the kitchen table. Thorin crosses over to the sink and starts washing his plate.

“This isn’t your house; why are you doing the dishes?” Bilbo’s voice is soft and slightly chilly. Thorin sets down the plate and turns to him.

“How much did you hear?” he asks.

Bilbo shrugs. Thorin nods, taking a seat at the kitchen table across from him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve respected your privacy, I know. But I care about you, and I was concerned.”

“I shouldn’t have lashed out like that,” says Bilbo stiffly. “Dreadfully impolite of me.”

“No, you had every right to,” admits Thorin. “I shouldn’t have pried, though admittedly I...uh, pried out of concern. And what your cousin told me suggests my concerns were not unfounded.”

“No,” says Bilbo. “They weren’t. But it’s in the past. I’ve moved on. I’m fine. No one else seems to think so, but I’m _fine_.”

Thorin pauses. “And you being fine has nothing to do with the fact that you picked the name ‘Smaug’ as a safeword, does it?”

Bilbo’s expression hardens. They stare at one another across the kitchen table for a moment longer. Then, finally, Bilbo softens, puts his head in his hands, and rubs his temples.

“It was five years ago,” he says quietly, staring intently at a whorl on the wooden table. “I was younger, more impressionable.” A pause. “I didn’t have Bag End back then, and I’d barely finished my graduate studies. Oxford. You’d think someone with that amount of brains would’ve seen this coming.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Thorin points out.

“I walked right into it,” snaps Bilbo, looking up at him abruptly. “A.G. Defiler’s first novel, _The Dragon’s Dungeon_ , had just come out. Suburban mothers ate it up and _begged_ their husbands to be more like Sir Dragonheart, that domineering, confident sex god with castles and private yachts and an entire fleet of Lamborghinis.” He laughs drily at that. “And when I met Smaug von Brandt at a party, I thought I found him. I found my own Sir Dragonheart.”

Thorin’s stomach sinks. He thinks he knows exactly where this is going.

“I was right, though,” says Bilbo. “I did find him. For all the private vacations and those expensive presents he’d force on me, I also got every last _inch_ of Sir Dragonheart’s failures as a Dominant. Hatred of safewords. Hatred of hard and soft limits. Hatred of everyone he couldn’t manipulate into serving him in some way. This was the man who set me an ultimatum and demanded that I become his submissive — in actuality, his slave — or else.”

Thorin doesn’t say anything. He can tell Bilbo’s eyes are shinier than usual. Silently, he reaches into his blazer and pulls out a pocket square, passing it over to Bilbo, who dabs at his eyes with a watery chuckle.

“Did you know that even with Master/slave dynamics in a healthy BDSM relationship, both parties enter into it with full knowledge of each role’s duties and expectations with one another? That even in lifestyle BDSM relationships with more fixed Dominant/submissive dynamics, there is still communication and love and trust? I didn’t. I thought that what I read in that damn novel was how the lifestyle works. Smaug played right into that.”

It takes a moment for Thorin to find his voice. “How did you…” he begins, and then trails off, holding out his hand across the table. Bilbo takes his hand, squeezes tightly.

“How did I get out?” he asks. “How did I move on?”

Thorin nods.

Bilbo shrugs. “I snapped, I guess. I told Prim what was going on, and she intervened for me. Read Smaug the riot act, I imagine. Might’ve also threatened legal action, or else I suspect he’d never let me hear the end of it. But I was out. And I’d thought that once I got out, I would go back to vanilla sex and never touch another flogger in my life, whether it be the business end or no. That didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. My first time after the entire ordeal, I practically begged my partner to yank my hair in bed.”

Thorin chuckles at that. He’d done the same to his last partner before Bilbo.

“People think that those of us who practice BDSM are all just trying to recreate traumatic experiences from the past, or that we’d all been abused by someone.” Bilbo shrugs. “It’s not true. I’m not with you because I want to recreate _anything_ about my past with Smaug. I _don’t_ want to be him. That’s the point. Safewording with his name reminds me of that.”

“I understand,” says Thorin. Bilbo squeezes his hand again, smiling.

“And as for how I moved on, well. Prim took me to a tea shop, where I met Bombur and Dori. _They_ helped me through it, really.”

“I’m glad of it,” replies Thorin.

“And they helped me set up Bag End, where I could prevent everyone else from making the same mistakes I made.” Bilbo laughs. “The community is very supportive as a whole, especially when it comes to protecting submissives from bad Dominants like Smaug. And I’m thankful for that.”

Thorin nods. Slowly, he takes Bilbo’s hands, raises it to his lips, presses kisses to the knuckles. Bilbo chuckles, his cheeks flushing a happy shade of pink. Thorin smiles, but then another thought strikes him.

“Do you know what’s happened to him? Von Brandt, that is. I mean, I understand if you don’t keep track, but —”

“I don’t know,” says Bilbo. “But I do keep an eye out for the news that he’s been sent to jail.”

“I hope he is,” says Thorin, with no small amount of venom in his voice, and Bilbo smiles.

* * *

The next morning begins like any other. Thorin arrives at the office, nods at the receptionist, takes reports and writeups from people as they intercept him on his way up to his office. It’s still fairly early April; the sun is a bit brighter but the wind still blows loudly outside the window.

Dwalin greets him at the door to his office. “The CEO of Gundabad Enterprises is here to speak with you,” he says.

“Good morning to you too,” retorts Thorin.

“I’ve been driven up the wall by this man. I can see where his lackeys get it from.” Dwalin’s tone is curt and harried. Thorin reaches out and pats his shoulder.

“Deep breaths, Dwalin,” he suggests. “Tell me more about the man. Why’d he come over on a Friday without any prior notification?”

“He demanded I make him coffee, as if I was an unpaid intern,” growls Dwalin.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “And why did he show up without any notice?”

“He didn’t tell me anything about his plans.” Dwalin shrugs. “Please, just humour him and get him out of here. It’d probably mean a lot to Glóin, in any case.”

Thorin sighs, nods at Dwalin, and enters the office.

A man is seated facing his desk, dressed in a sharp black suit with a red tie. He is tall, lithe, and lizard-like in the way he turns his head to survey the room and follow Thorin over to his desk.

“Welcome to Erebor Engineering,” says Thorin, folding his hands on his desk. “I’m the managing director, Thorin Oakenshield. I was told you wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” says the man, and his voice is low and smoky. “Smaug von Brandt, CEO of Gundabad Enterprises.”

Thorin feels like he’s been doused with cold water. He blinks, once, twice. Smaug removes an envelope from the inside front pocket of his suit jacket and pushes it across the desk to Thorin.

“I am here to extend to you an invitation to a little soirée at my mansion next week,” he says, “where we will be unveiling the new partnership between Gundabad and Erebor and the projects we will surely undertake together.”

Thorin’s brows furrow. “I don’t recall reaching any agreements about a partnership in my discussions with your representatives,” he says, moving his hands into his lap before Smaug can see them clenching into white-knuckled fists.

Smaug grins ferally. “No agreements?” he asks. “We’ll see about that.”

And Thorin can’t help but wonder how vindicated Primula Brandybuck would feel right now if she were here with him.


	12. Shaken, Not Stirred

Dori and Bombur’s tea shop, Hulwulzahar, is a cute little café in SoHo with an antique oak counter, checkerboard floor tiles, and a green awning stretching over a dining terrace and several planter boxes full of tulips.

Thorin steps into the shop to the sound of tinkling bells, looking up at the chalkboard menu with its daily recommendations for tea and paired snacks. The shop is currently playing host to at least three couples, a small birthday party, and an old man with a cane and a seeing eye dog, who’s seated at a table set for two on the terrace but only pouring tea for one.

“Can I help you?” the gangly teenager with the boyish face asks from behind the counter. Thorin looks up, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m still browsing,” he says, before turning his attention to the cake display, which also houses biscuits, puddings, finger sandwiches, and chocolates. Perhaps Bilbo would like some chocolate-dipped strawberries on Friday, provided Thorin doesn’t cancel their meeting at all. After all, he’s expected at the mansion at seven, and the party intends to go past nine; Bilbo would be bored out of his mind waiting for Thorin to return, and Thorin knows he can’t bring him along.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of Bombur greeting him. “Thorin! Fancy seeing you here!” The rotund redhead bustles out from behind the counter to shake Thorin’s hand vigorously. “Have you met Ori?” he adds, gesturing to the gangly teenager. “He’s Dori’s little brother; he helps us out after school — Dori!” he calls, shouting towards the door to the kitchens. “Thorin’s here!”

Several of the birthday party attendees turn to stare at him. Thorin blushes at being pinned down by the glares of twelve twelve-year-old children, and quickly pretends to scrutinise the chocolate-dipped strawberries instead.

“You know, Bilbo absolutely loves those strawberries,” says Bombur. “Especially the ones dipped in dark chocolate. He also gets most of his teas from us, if you were curious. I’m fairly certain that that man bathes in Earl Grey, since he’s always drinking it — though I’ve noticed that he’s switched to white teas in the evening.”

Thorin chuckles. “He often has Silver Needle when he’s at my place,” he says. “Though I suppose it won’t hurt to stock some of his usual tea too.”

At that moment the door to the kitchen opens, and a handsome man with silver sideburns and a worldly, debonair look about him steps out with a tray of teapots in knitted cozies. He moves through the customers, dropping off and replacing pots, and finally returns to the counter and hands the tray to Ori before turning to Thorin.

“So you’re Bilbo’s Thorin?” he asks, and part of Thorin — presumably his inner submissive — swells with happiness at being recognised in connection with Bilbo.

He nods, and the man’s smile widens; he reaches out and shakes Thorin’s hand.

“We were hoping you’d drop by sometime!” he exclaims. “I’m Dori, the tea-making side of this business. Please, take a seat over there —” he gestures towards a comfortable-looking booth by one of the large windows, “and let us fix you some tea and biscuits!”

Before he can protest, Thorin finds himself sitting at the booth with a pot of Earl Grey in a knitted acorn cosy sitting in front of him, paired with a tiered tea tray piled with little lemon poppyseed muffins, slices of strawberries and oranges, fruit tarts, and dark chocolate biscuits.

Bombur takes a seat across from him and pours three cups; moments later Dori joins them as well. Thorin takes a sip of the tea and closes his eyes in bliss; it is lightly scented but richly flavoured, and brings to mind memories of Bilbo’s warm hugs and soft caresses. He savours the feeling a moment longer, wondering if this is what Bilbo envisions whenever he takes his time sipping his tea.

“What do you think?” Dori asks.

“Excellent,” replies Thorin.

“Good, good.” Dori grins at him, and then gestures to the tea tray. “Try a bit of everything; all of these snacks are paired specifically to the tea.”

Thorin takes one of the lemon poppyseed muffins. It’s warm and soft in his mouth, melting away at the first hint of tea.

“That dark chocolate could also be made into a rich accompanying hot chocolate, if you —” begins Bombur, but Thorin shakes his head.

“This is quite enough, thank you,” he says.

Bombur laughs. “Well, if you change your mind…” he trails off, and then folds his hands on the table. “Now, did you come visiting because of what I said at the munch in March?”

“What, I couldn’t have come for the tea?” asks Thorin drily, but then nods. “Bilbo told me what happened to him. It was Smaug von Brandt, wasn’t it?”

“That worm,” growls Bombur.

“It’s good that Bilbo can talk about this stuff again,” adds Dori, though his jaw is also slightly tense. “Ever since he stopped coming to Bombur’s meetings he’s been adamant that nobody bring up what happened to him.”

“I don’t know if he’s any more eager about telling me the details than he would be with, say, a therapist or something,” says Thorin, frowning.

“Oh, I’d say he doesn’t really trust therapists,” Dori muses. “We recommended Dr Óin to him, but I don’t think anything useful came out of those sessions — at least, Bilbo seems to think so.”

“So does that mean I’m special?” asks Thorin.

“You’re definitely not a typical scene partner,” says Bombur. “I’m glad he told you about what happened to him. I might be wrong, but I think that means he’s serious about you.”

Thorin chuckles, and then takes a long, slow sip of tea, as if he’s steeling himself for the news he’s about to drop.

“Smaug von Brandt is back,” he says.

The clatter of Bombur’s cup against the saucer is oddly loud. “Back?” echoes the man.

Thorin nods. “I don’t know if you know this, but he is the CEO of Gundabad Enterprises, which is seeking to create some sort of business partnership with my family’s company, Erebor Engineering.”

Dori taps his lips with his teaspoon. “We knew he’d gone Stateside after Bilbo’s cousin threatened to press charges, though I doubt it was _because_ of that. I think it was something else.”

Bombur’s expression is borderline thunderous. “But why does he return now? And why does he want a partnership with Erebor?”

“Yes, I thought Gundabad was mostly just automotives,” adds Dori.

Thorin clears his throat. “Erebor recently developed a new line of building materials and systems,” he says. “We hold the patent for mithril, an aluminum steel alloy that promises to be lighter, cheaper, and more versatile than traditional steel alloys. We’ve also patented the Arkenstone internal power system, which uses solar glass to enable a building to generate its own power.” He pauses, catches himself, and then clears his throat with redder cheeks. “What I mean is that all of this development needs the means to be produced for the market and for our own future construction projects. Gundabad is a potential investor. They give us the money, and in return we build them their new London headquarters.”

“I’d think something like the Arkenstone system thing would be more up Rivendell’s alley,” says Dori. “Why haven’t _they_ invested?”

“Family rivalries,” says Thorin almost immediately. “I’m in a difficult situation. The family members on the Board of Directors would fire me on the spot if I approach Elrond Peredhil about investing in this. But at the same time, I can’t stand the sight of Smaug, especially in light of what he’s done to Bilbo.” He swallows. “And he knows I have no choice but to accept his offer; he’s already planned a party this Friday where he’ll unveil the partnership. I’ve got no choice but to go and pretend I approve of all of this.”

“So your hands are tied, and not in the fun way,” says Bombur.

“Thanks,” says Thorin drily, and takes another sip of tea.

Dori drums his fingers on the table, and then says, “You should tell him.”

“What?” asks Thorin.

“Bilbo. You should tell him about Smaug returning.”

It’s inevitable, of course, given that the party is on Friday. Leave it to Smaug von Brandt to intrude on their time together, however inadvertently.

“I’ll tell him in person on Friday,” Thorin resolves. Telling him over the phone could potentially make him anxious or even worse. Physical reassurance seems necessary for something like this.

* * *

“So, why can’t I come to this top secret party of yours?” Bilbo asks.

It’s Friday evening. Thorin is adjusting his cufflinks in front of the mirror in his bedroom. Over his shoulder he sees Bilbo sitting up in bed, Consort’s robe draped over his bare shoulders and a down comforter pooling in his lap. He is soft and feathered temptation, and Thorin absolutely hates the fact that he’s leaving at all.

“It’s somewhere dangerous,” he says. He hasn’t quite informed the man of the exact nature of the party and its host; Bilbo had greeted him at five with kisses, Thorin had given him chocolate-dipped strawberries from Hulwulzahar, and any thoughts he’d had of telling Bilbo about Smaug’s return had flown out the window the instant Bilbo’s hands were on his cock.

Now Thorin wishes he could just rewind back to the sex and stay there in that scene forever, tied down to the bed and blindfolded, with his Consort dealing him the most exquisite combinations of pain and pleasure. He had to practically force his brain out of subspace in order to dress for the party, and he suspects the subdrop will hit him hard later, and he’ll regret every second he’s not in Bilbo’s arms.

He now mentally curses Smaug for about the third time that day, especially as he watches Bilbo’s concerned expression in the mirror behind him.

“Are you sure you want to rush to ‘somewhere dangerous’ so soon after a scene, Mr Bond?”

“I’ve made it a personal point of pride not to have watched any of those films,” replies Thorin.

Bilbo laughs. “We might have to change that.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow at him. “Can I list James Bond films as a hard limit, then?” he jokes, and chuckles at Bilbo’s mock-horrified expression. “I’m joking. I would love to watch them with you.”

Bilbo’s smile widens. He sprawls out on the bed, languidly stretching like a cat, looking upside-down at Thorin with adoring eyes. His robes pool around him, leaving very little to the imagination. Thorin swallows, tempering the urge to tear his suit off and go back to bed.

“Are you trying to seduce an answer out of me?” he asks.

“So you admit you haven’t been giving me any straight answers,” says Bilbo. Thorin groans. “Seriously, Thorin. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be going ‘somewhere dangerous’ right after a scene. You’re still emotionally vulnerable.”

“I’m sorry; I have no choice,” says Thorin. “I did consider cancelling our meeting, but your visits are all that’s been keeping me going all week, and I couldn’t let that go. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll check in on you via text throughout the party, then,” offers Bilbo.

Thorin blanches at the thought of Smaug catching him texting Bilbo during the party. “That — That won’t be necessary.”

“Okay, now it’s my turn to pry out of concern,” Bilbo sits back up and crosses his arms, the commanding air of the Consort slipping into his frame as he does so. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m obligated to attend a party tonight,” deadpans Thorin, “where I’ll be forced to rub elbows with potential investors and declare how happy I am that Erebor is partnering with Gundabad Enterprises. Satisfied, Your Highness?”

“You’re dropping,” warns Bilbo.

Thorin rubs his temples. “I’m sorry. This is going to be such an ordeal.”

“If I’d known you had other plans, I’d have saved the scene for another time.”

“No! I wanted it! I needed…” Thorin swallows, and sighs. He turns from the mirror. “Smaug von Brandt is hosting the party,” he says.

Bilbo’s jaw tenses. His knuckles turn white even against the comforter. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“He personally handed me an invitation last week.”

Bilbo’s expression turns inward, becomes more pensive. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to do it in person. I thought — I thought you’d panic or something if I did it over the phone.”

“I’m not that delicate,” Bilbo snaps.

“No, of course not — look, I’m sorry about this, all right? I fucked up. I’m probably about to go pay the price, going to a party in the throes of subdrop or whatever. And I can’t have you texting me during it, because what if Smaug looks at my phone? I don’t want him to know about us. I don’t want him to find you again.”

Bilbo takes a deep breath, and then finally rises from the bed, shrugging the Consort’s robe off his shoulders as he steps towards Thorin, wrapping his arms around him.

“You need a little more touching before you go,” he says. “To tide you over — how long is this party going to last, anyway?”

“I’ll be out the door by nine, I _swear_.”

Bilbo huffs. “I’m sure Smaug will try to persuade you otherwise,” he says.

“Please stay here tonight, then,” replies Thorin as he presses their foreheads together. “I need you to stay here, so that I have something to look forward to when I get back.”

Bilbo chuckles, leans upwards to kiss him. It’s gentle and soft at first, but then it rapidly hardens; Bilbo pushes Thorin into the wall, flickers of the Consort dancing in his eyes as he bites and sucks at Thorin’s neck, wrinkling the carefully-pressed collar and leaving an array of marks on Thorin’s skin. Thorin’s heartbeat quickens in response; he arches into Bilbo’s touch, craving more even though he knows that, at this rate, he’ll be late and dishevelled.

 _So be it, then_ , he thinks, as Bilbo untucks his shirt and undoes the belt and fly of his trousers, reaching into his boxers to pull out his rapidly hardening cock. Thorin’s hands clench in Bilbo’s hair as his partner takes him into his mouth as far as he can, sucking as if he’s determined to make this a memory to plague Thorin’s mind all night while they’re apart.

It doesn’t take long for Thorin to come, what with Bilbo’s mouth bobbing up and down on his cock like that, what with those sure fingers stroking along the shaft and that sinful little mouth kissing and licking the tip. Bilbo even goes so far as to swallow Thorin’s come; his upturned face and slightly opened mouth sear themselves into Thorin’s memory. Which, he suspects, is the entire point of this.

“Say you’ll come back soon,” Bilbo says as he rises to his feet, wiping at his mouth. Thorin’s heart still pounds out a mile in his chest as he draws his partner — his Consort — close and kisses him again, long and deep, tasting his own bitterness on Bilbo’s lips.

“If I wasn’t convinced to return early before, I definitely am now,” he whispers.

“Good,” says Bilbo, playfully adjusting his tie and collar and smoothing down his front. “And make sure to tuck your shirt in on your way out.”

* * *

The party — or as Smaug calls it, the soirée — is a wildly elaborate affair for something with such a small guest list. Thorin and Glóin are practically the only two representatives for Erebor, though they do recognise several other attendees: Elrond Peredhil from Rivendell Electronics, for example, as well as Archibald Lincoln of Dale Manufacturing. Mr Lincoln is accompanied by his personal assistant, Alfrid, who is apparently carrying his food and champagne for him.

“Charming bunch of people,”  Glóin remarks drily.

“And out of all of these potential investors, only Gundabad actually stepped forward,” Thorin grumbles bitterly. “Why?”

“They’re hoping to expand to Europe,” Glóin whispers back.

“I _know_ that. The question remains.” Thorin folds his hands behind his back and tries not to think of what Bilbo had been doing to him scarcely an hour ago. He just has to get through two hours of this before he can excuse himself quietly from the premises; it’s quickly becoming a mantra in his head.

“Why, Mr Oakenshield!” Archibald Lincoln’s voice booms from just behind him. Thorin tries not to flinch as he turns around to smile at the man and shake his hand. “It’s been a while, it’s been a while. How have you been doing?”

Thorin shrugs. “I have been well,” he says neutrally.

“Good, good! Have you tried the smoked salmon or the caviar? Excellent stuff. Mr von Brandt has an extremely discerning palate — he only picks the best out of everything. Top notch fellow, don’t you think?”

“Oh?” Thorin raises an eyebrow. He grabs a flute of champagne from a passing server to avoid having to say anything else.

“He’s truly nothing like your typical boorish American, if I do say so myself.” Mr Lincoln snaps a finger, and Alfrid hurries forward with his platter of food. Thorin watches uncomfortably as the man orders Alfrid to make him another toasted cracker topped with smoked salmon.

“He does seem to be...concerned with appearances.” Thorin looks around for Glóin, but his financial director is apparently in an avid discussion with a gaggle of Japanese bankers — and apparently speaking in fluent Japanese. Typical.

“I believe it does him well,” declares Mr Lincoln. “Well, I intend to get more caviar before Mr von Brandt’s speech. Congratulations on the partnership with Gundabad, by the way!” And with that, he hurries back towards the refreshments with Alfrid following close behind.

Thorin grits his teeth. He looks around him again. Glóin is still in his discussion with the Japanese bankers, and thankfully Smaug is nowhere in sight. He decides to head in Glóin’s direction, but then he catches a glimpse of another familiar face.

“Dáin! Is that you?” he says as he approaches the man, who seems to be enjoying a couple pastries that he swiped from a passing server. Detective Inspector Dáin Ironfoot looks up, his eyes widening in recognition.

“Thorin, old boy! Aren’t you the guest of honour at this little party?”

“Unfortunately,” says Thorin.

“Ah, I knew you’d say something like that. You always hated family gatherings.” Dáin chuckles, patting his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“My super got the invitation; he sent me in his stead.” Dáin shrugs, stuffing the last pastry in his mouth and crossing his arms. “I think the host just wants to gather as many VIPs as he can. I’m surprised he didn’t invite the Queen.”

“Or maybe he did, and she did what I couldn’t and didn’t show up.”

“What’ve you got against a little merriment in your honour, huh?”

Thorin exhales deeply, thinking of Bilbo. “I just want to be... _elsewhere_ ,” he admits. Dáin raises an eyebrow at him, and then guffaws.

“You don’t mean to say — no! _You_?” He laughs. “What’s her name, and why couldn’t she be here?”

“It’s not a ‘she’,” hisses Thorin. “And he couldn’t be here because of personal reasons.”

“Ah, I see.” Dáin chuckles. “Good thing he can’t be, though. Knowing you, you’ve snapped up a pretty young thing, and I can only imagine what Mr von Brandt would try to do to convince your date to leave you.”

Thorin blinks at him. Dáin couldn’t possibly know about Bilbo and Smaug’s history. “...What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

“Oh, don’t you know?” Dáin’s voice drops down to a whisper. “The Yard knows that Mr von Brandt has some...interesting proclivities. He was arrested in London a couple years ago for public indecency. Something about parading a young male uni student around in broad daylight, starkers except for a collar and chain.”

Thorin blanches. “Do you know the student’s name?”

Dáin shrugs. “I’m not privy to all the details, but apparently the student said he’d consented to the entire affair and most of the charges were dropped. The rest just couldn’t stick.” The Detective Inspector laughs. “Can you imagine that! Consenting to being paraded around in a collar!”

Thorin privately thinks he’d gladly wear nothing but a collar for Bilbo. Mostly because he knows Bilbo would much rather keep that view for his eyes only. That being said, he can’t help but wonder if the student in question had been his Bilbo. Just the very thought of it makes him sick to the stomach, makes him want to scour the party for von Brandt and punch him in his lizard-like face.

“Are you alright?” asks Dáin. “You look a little peaked.”

Thorin takes a couple deep breaths, regretting everything about going to this party while in subdrop. He takes a couple whole grain crackers from a passing server and eats them, washing it all down with champagne and what’s left of his mental dignity.

“I’m fine,” he lies, and Dáin nods sceptically at him.

* * *

He’s not sure how he gets through the rest of the party, especially Smaug von Brandt’s speech about partnerships and alliances and moving forward. The man extols Erebor’s technological developments, and insists that Gundabad is excited to be partnered with a company on the cutting edge of eco-friendly technology.

As the time ticks down to nine, Thorin becomes more jittery, more excited about the prospect of returning home to Bilbo. He begins to wonder what Bilbo’s doing at this moment. Is he curled up in bed, still wearing nothing but the robe? Is he watching telly, wrapped in the robe with the strawberries from Hulwulzahar perched on his lap, slowly popping the berries into his mouth after licking off as much of the chocolate as he can? Is he sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of Silver Needle in his hand, savouring the light aroma as he impatiently watches the clock on the oven?

Thorin is so wrapped up in his fantasies that he doesn’t see Smaug von Brandt approaching until the man is at his side.

“An excellent turnout, I daresay,” he says, and Thorin turns towards him, folding his arms behind his back so that the man won’t see how his hands are balled into fists.

“Yes,” he says as diplomatically as possible.

“I hope you have been enjoying yourself.” Smaug’s smile shows all of his teeth in a vaguely menacing way. Thorin feels a shiver run down his spine, and not in a good way.

“It has been...an event.” His own smile is thin, impatient. Every atom in his body yearns for Bilbo, screams for his Consort’s touch.

Smaug leans in closer; Thorin leans back, eyes narrowing as he notices the man peering curiously at his neck.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Smaug straightens himself. “You seem to have some bruises on your neck. Is that...normal for you?”

“What are you insinuating?” demands Thorin, his voice quietly furious.

“Nothing,” repeats Smaug, with a smirk. “I merely thought I recognised the pattern.” He dives in again and inhales the air around Thorin sharply, rather like a bloodhound going after prey. Thorin shudders visibly; Smaug grins. “Woody musk aftershave. Ah, what a trip down memory lane.”

There are ice sculptures less frozen in place than Thorin is in this moment. He stares up at Smaug in disbelief.

Smaug smiles back, but the gesture does not reach his eyes. “Have a wonderful evening, Mr Oakenshield,” he says, and strides away. Thorin unclenches his fists, and finds that his hands are shaking.

He leaves the party soon after that.


	13. The Honeymoon Scene

There are a couple more people at the next munch. Casey’s partner from FetLife, a plump and cute sugar puff of a little, is there, as well as Bard’s supermodel partner, Thranduil Greenwood, and one of Galadriel’s former clients, Gandalf Grey. Thorin doesn’t like the look of Thranduil Greenwood, and based on the constipated expressions that Thranduil sends his way, the feeling is mutual.

“It’s been awhile since I last saw you at these, Gandalf, what have you been up to?” Bilbo asks from his seat next to Thorin. The old man chuckles and shrugs.

“Minding my own damn business, for the most part,” he says.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “The day when _you_ of all people ‘mind your own damn business’ is the day that the Sun crashes into the Moon. _What_ have you been up to?”

Gandalf harrumphs. “So sceptical, Bilbo Baggins. Some things never change.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of his tea, clearly stalling for time.

Thorin looks around the table. Casey and their partner are chatting with Bombur; the words ‘cinnamon buns’ come up several times in one sentence. Next to them, Galadriel and Bard are quietly discussing Bard’s work, with Thranduil serenely looking on.

“ — My services do not come cheap, as you very well know —”

“Yes, which makes me wonder —”

“He’s been in to see me at least three times a week.”

“I imagine he’s been channeling the power you give him as a client into making his PA’s life a living hell. Though to be honest, Alfrid’s also a piece of work.”

Thorin blinks. Archibald Lincoln’s one of Galadriel’s clients? Somehow he doesn’t find that surprising at all.

“Alfrid tried to solicit my services for free. I told him he could have my heel on his neck for free,” Galadriel stabs at her salad quite viciously. “Eventually, he’s going to have to learn that the name ‘Archibald Lincoln’ can’t open _every_ door.” She pauses. “Why are you still at Dale, anyway?”

“I ask myself the same question,” replies Bard, absentmindedly squeezing Thranduil’s hand. Thorin has the urge to hold Bilbo’s as well, just to stick it to Thranduil. “But if my suspicions are correct, then there’s definitely benefits to being on the inside.”

“Won’t they suspect your investigation?” asks Galadriel.

“I’ll take care not to arouse suspicion, then,” replies Bard. Thranduil glares at Thorin, who glares back.

“ —Contrary to popular opinion,” Bilbo’s voice cuts suddenly through all the other conversations, sounding unnaturally shrill, “I’m actually capable of hearing his name without shattering, thank you very much!”

Alarmed, Thorin turns to his own partner. Bilbo’s hands are shaking as they grip his utensils. Thorin reaches over, sets down Bilbo’s right hand, and covers it with his own.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t want us to even mention his name,” says Gandalf, raising one bushy grey eyebrow.

“That was back then,” says Bilbo, squeezing Thorin’s hand as he continues to talk. “And ‘back then’ was years ago. I’m fine now.”

“Are you really?” wonders Gandalf, his gaze pointedly dropping to Bilbo’s other white-knuckled hand. By now, the others have paused in their conversations to watch Bilbo and Gandalf’s. Thorin can’t help but feel a little self-conscious, even though he’s not actually in the conversation.

Bilbo laughs wryly. “All right, fine. I might never actually be fully and completely fine. But I _am_ fine now. I’ll still be fine five minutes, an hour, twenty-four hours from now, and until further notice.”

“What just happened?” Casey demands.

“Gandalf was tiptoeing around the fact that Smaug von Brandt is back,” replies Bilbo coldly.

“Who told you that?” demands Bard.

“Thorin, as a matter of fact,” says Bilbo. “Says he’s returned for a business partnership with Erebor Engineering.”

Gandalf sighs. “I don’t think the business partnership is his primary motive for returning,” he points out.

“But he doesn’t know about Bilbo and I,” Thorin points out.

“He’s more perceptive than you think,” warns Gandalf.

“Yes, by smelling people, apparently.” Thorin glares at Gandalf. “How did you find out that he was back? What did you tell Bilbo?”

“I was monitoring a play party this past Wednesday,” replies Gandalf. “He was there.”

“Was he doing anything?” asks Bombur.

“No, just observing.” Gandalf takes a sip of tea. “He might have been cruising visually; he was rather interested in some of the new players.”

“Of course it’s the new ones,” says Bard darkly.

Bilbo sighs. “Poor things,” he laments. “But I imagine they’ll at least have had one decent scene under their belt.”

Thorin frowns at Gandalf. “You mean to say that Smaug von Brandt is in London for —”

“Business _and_ pleasure,” replies Gandalf. “And I imagine he’d prefer to mix the two.”

Thorin grimaces at that, and looks over at Bilbo, who stabs at his potatoes without another word.

* * *

Thorin signs the partnership agreement in his office on Tuesday, and his pen feels like a dead weight in his hands as he looks up from the papers at Smaug. The man smiles his cold reptilian smile as he takes the contract and puts it into his satchel.

“Excellent, _excellent_ ,” he drawls. “Such a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Oakenshield. We look forward to working with Erebor.”

Thorin nods. “I trust you can see yourself out,” he says brusquely, but Smaug doesn’t move; he uses the excuse of finishing his glass of whiskey to linger longer in Thorin’s office. Thorin grits his teeth at that.

“You know, for someone who bears the marks of submission you really do not look the part,” the man says over the rim of his whiskey glass.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a part to play,” says Thorin flatly.

“Then you’ve been poorly trained,” replies Smaug. “A true submissive would not say such things.”

“You have no business making presumptions about my habits in my personal life,” snaps Thorin. He knows he’s not dropping, though it’s rather hard to tell the difference around this man; Smaug definitely brings out the irritable sides of him.

The man laughs. It’s a chilling laugh, one that sends those unpleasant tingles down Thorin’s spine. He shudders, though he tries to hide that as best as he can.

“You should be better trained for your role,” the man sneers.

“I’m not _in_ role,” retorts Thorin. “Unlike you, I can distinguish between what’s in my head and what’s real.”

“The true submissive never leaves the role; they are the role inherently.”

“Well, I’m quite glad you’re not my Dominant, then.” Thorin stares pointedly at the man’s now-empty whiskey glass. “Like I said, you’re free to show yourself out.”

Smaug swiftly rises to his feet. “You’ll come begging before long,” he says, smirking. “Whoever your Dominant is, they can’t possibly satisfy _all_ of those nasty little fantasies in your head. They’re far too gentle with you; you’ve been coddled and pampered in your inexperience and it shows quite well. I can change that.”

Thorin’s hands clench into fists. “ _Leave_ ,” he snaps. Smaug sweeps out of the office, and it’s only after the man’s footsteps recede down the hall that Thorin unclenches his hands and rubs his temples.

He dials Bilbo’s number, wanting to hear his Consort’s voice, but the call goes to voicemail, and for a wild moment Thorin considers redialling so that he can hear Bilbo reading out his answering machine message, all awkward blushes as he stammers out his hello and his ‘terribly sorry’ and his ‘can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message’. But eventually he just puts his phone down again, and swivels around in his chair to stare out the window instead.

He hates to acknowledge it, but Smaug does have a point — there _are_ fantasies in Thorin’s mind that he knows touches close to Bilbo’s limits. And the idea that Smaug _might_ be right about something somehow makes those fantasies all the more abhorrent for Thorin.

* * *

April bursts into May, into blooming shocks of flowers on the trees and in the parks. Spring is in full display as it slowly transitions and warms towards summer; the park in Belgrave Square gets more and more beautiful as the days wear on.

Thorin makes it a point to have chocolate-dipped strawberries from Hulwulzahar as regularly as possible whenever Bilbo is around. He makes it a point to stock the tea shelf in the cupboard with Bilbo’s favourite Earl Grey, and the bathroom counter in the master bedroom with Bilbo’s aftershave and a spare toothbrush. It’s in these tiny service things where his inner submissive thrives, and the look of absolute joy on Bilbo’s face when he sees these little presents tucked away like details of everyday life makes Thorin’s heart swell all the more. It’s ridiculous how easily they slot together — two razors, two toothbrushes, a regular Friday meeting pencilled into Thorin’s planner — and Thorin can’t help but wonder what that means.

“I’ve been thinking,” says Bilbo one Friday evening as Thorin finishes washing the dishes. Slow music is playing from Thorin’s laptop in his office; and Bilbo is twirling his fingers around a stray napkin ring as he watches Thorin wipe his hands on a towel. Thorin raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t hear what Bilbo’s thoughts are.

“And?” he prompts.

“I’ve never actually done this before,” prefaces Bilbo, and Thorin raises the other eyebrow.

“I’m sure I haven’t done whatever you haven’t done either, so I’m equally lost as you,” he says.

Bilbo chuckles. “I’m just not sure how to phrase it,” he says.

Thorin’s heartbeat quickens a little at that.“Then say what comes first to mind,” he suggests.

Bilbo sighs, nods. He crosses over to where Thorin stands, and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want you to take my collar,” he says.

Thorin blinks.

“Take...what?”

“I mean, I don’t even _have_ a collar to give, so we’d have to order one from somewhere, but the sentiment remains. My _collar_ , Thorin. Something to suggest that you and I are together. That you belong to me and —” he breaks off, blushing. “And I belong to you,” he adds in a softer voice.

Thorin blinks again, and then becomes acutely aware of the fact that his inner submissive is tap-dancing all over any negative feelings he might’ve even vaguely experienced in the moments before. He’s elated to hear such an offer, such an idea. Wearing Bilbo’s collar — _their_ collar, apparently, since they’d be doing this together — is such an intoxicatingly wonderful notion that all he can think of as a response is to reach out and grab the man’s hand and declare yes, yes, yes.

Bilbo’s eyes are a little shiny at that, but Thorin kisses away his tears, and Bilbo laughs at that, hefting Thorin briefly in his arms and almost spinning him around before his arms give out. Thorin cups Bilbo’s face once he’s back on solid ground again, leaning in to kiss his partner, his Consort, with all the ferocity of someone determined to die with kisses.

“The way you’re taking this makes me think I’ve proposed to you instead,” Bilbo remarks when they finally resurface for air. Thorin laughs, and Bilbo reaches up with a small giggle to cup his face and kiss him again, softly, gently. They sway together to the sound of the music coming from Thorin’s office, the world narrowing to nothing more than the press of their bodies against one another and Bilbo’s soft breathing against Thorin’s skin.

“I’ve always wondered what the king and the Consort’s wedding night was like,” Thorin remarks as he twirls Bilbo in their strange little dance. The only rhythm they have is with each other; the beats of the song that’s playing are completely irrelevant to how they move with one another.

“Oh, I bet it was wonderful,” says Bilbo. “Rose petals in the bath and all of that nonsense.”

“What’s the point of rose petals in the bath?” demands Thorin. “They’re ridiculous and they get everywhere. I, as the king, won’t have any in my honeymoon suite.”

Bilbo laughs. “Would you also argue against a massage from your Consort? I bet the king was very stressed out about the entire wedding, and the Consort would therefore want him nice and relaxed for the wedding night.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” replies Thorin with a grin. “And what else would the Consort do to the king?”

Bilbo’s eyes are alight with mischief. He then dips Thorin briefly, pressing a kiss to his nose before raising him back up. “Well, I’m sure the Consort would like nothing more than to restrain the king to the bed and fuck him into the mattress, but I’m also quite open to your suggestions.”

“I think the king would appreciate that very much,” replies Thorin. Bilbo winks, and then leads him to the bedroom.

* * *

The Royal Bedroom is richly appointed, all furs and leather and a warm fire crackling in the grate. Thorin leads his newly-wedded Consort into the room, the latter looking around him in appreciation as he tugs at the collar of his wedding outfit.

“At last,” Thorin says. “I thought the reception would never end.”

“You were so very tense during the ceremony today, weren’t you?”

Thorin nods. “I was frightened that something would go wrong. I feared that this was all a dream and that I was still alone and wishing I could have you by my side.”

“Could _this_ be a dream?” asks his Consort, leaning up to nip at his lips in a biting kiss. Thorin melts into it all the same, the pain a welcome jolt to his body as he wraps his arms around his Consort.

“If it is, then I don’t want to wake up,” says Thorin almost breathlessly. They laugh at how corny it sounds, but the laughter gives way to kissing once again, with them parting only for air.

His Consort looks at him now with darkened eyes and flushed cheeks. Thorin is fairly certain he’s never felt so desired before, and it thrills him to know that this look is for him only.

“You’ve done it, Your Majesty,” his Consort says, resting his hands on Thorin’s chest. “You’ve made me yours in the eyes of the law. Now it’s my turn to make you mine.” And slowly, his hands undo the clasps of the king’s wedding tunic, pushes furs and velvets and all the trappings of status and royalty from his shoulders until he is bare and vulnerable under his Consort’s heated gaze. Thorin swallows. He’s already hard, and the knowing smile on his Consort’s face makes him even harder.

And then slowly, his Consort begins to undress, swatting away Thorin’s hands when he tries to help. He’s caught, then, between impatience and arousal as more and more of his Consort’s delectable skin is exposed to his own hungry stare. A war could be happening outside the door and it wouldn’t even matter as much as the way his Consort slowly unravels the clasps and fastenings holding his wedding outfit together.

Thorin shivers as the velvets and furs of his Consort’s wedding outfit fall from his body. The first brush of their skin against each other makes him hum in ecstasy. His Consort presses their hips together, cocks sliding against one another with delicious friction.

“Beloved,” Thorin sighs, and his Consort gyrates his hips slightly, rubbing his cock against Thorin’s again. Thorin’s gasp is muffled by a kiss.

“Can’t let the courtiers hear us,” says his Consort with a wicked grin. Thorin’s breath comes out in shudders as his Consort takes his hand and leads him to the bed, gesturing for him to sit.

“You still look so tense, Your Majesty. Let me help you relax,” offers his Consort as he gestures for Thorin to lie face down on the bed. “If at any time you want me to stop —”

“I remember our words, Beloved.” Thorin’s words are muffled by the pillows.

“Good boy.” His Consort lightly pats his cheek, and then clambers onto the bed, straddling Thorin’s thighs. He then reaches for the candle on the nightstand, and Thorin closes his eyes in bliss as he feels the warm soy wax drip onto his back. His Consort’s fingers are sure and deft as they massage the sweet-smelling wax into his skin.

“I knew I married you for a reason,” Thorin jokes, though in a slightly more sensual tone he adds, “there’s witchcraft in your fingertips.”

His Consort chuckles, and then the warm wax is everywhere his fingers are. Thorin closes his eyes to better savour the sensations washing over him. He lets himself drift; he gives up thought in favour of sensation, reason in favour of the steady kneading of his Consort’s hands against his back and the scent of lavender soy wax.

“So responsive,” murmurs his Consort as Thorin hums into the massage. “Are you sensitive, or do you just like giving feedback?”

Thorin’s only response is a loud moan, which is responded to with a swat at his buttocks. Remembering that his Consort dislikes inarticulate answers, Thorin summons up what’s left of his brain power to mumble, “I just like you touching me.”

A soft chuckle in his ear. A gentle hand on his shoulder. Thorin turns around to face his Consort now, sprawled indolently across the pillows with a contented smile.

“How are we feeling?” asks his Consort, straddling his thighs again and squeezing his hand twice. Thorin squeezes back, still lost to sensation as he is.

“Excellent,” he murmurs deamily. He hums into his Consort’s kiss, closing his eyes again as he feels fingers gently stroking at his beard, fingers deftly winding through his hair — and then tugging. Thorin gasps.

“You like that, don’t you?” murmurs his Consort in his ear. He tugs Thorin’s hair again, Thorin bites his lips to prevent himself from moaning too loudly. “You want that again, don’t you?”

“Please,” whines Thorin. “Again.” And his Consort complies, tugging at Thorin’s hair as he kisses and bites a trail along his neck and collarbone, as he nips at Thorin’s lips and grinds their hips together. Thorin cries out loudly at that.

“Not so loud, Your Majesty,” chastises his Consort. He then reaches for the nightstand again, replacing the candle with a set of restraints, which he uses to bind his king down onto the bed. Thorin had never thought that he’d look so helpless on his wedding night, and it sends thrills through his body.

His Consort tugs lightly at the restraints as he settles between Thorin’s now-spread legs. “How are they?” he asks.

“Good,” murmurs Thorin. He tries to arch into his Consort’s touch, but the restraints prevent him from getting far. His Consort laughs, lightly smacking his face.

“Patience, my pet,” murmurs his Consort, and Thorin collapses back against the pillows. “And be more quiet; I’ll have to gag you if you continue to be so loud.”

Thorin moans even louder at that, straining against his restraints as he tries to bring himself closer to his Consort. His Consort’s response is to brush their cocks together only briefly, teasingly, but Thorin’s eyes roll back in his head nonetheless as he moans at the exquisite feeling of his Consort’s cock against his own. His hips buck upwards again as he clings onto the sensation.

“Beloved,” Thorin pants as his Consort takes them both in his hand, stroking with deft flicks of his wrists. “Please.”

“I love it when you beg.” His Consort’s hazel eyes twinkle in the firelight, an unreadable ever-shifting flicker of colour to Thorin’s pleasure-clouded mind. “What do you want, my dirty little pet?”

“I...I want —” Thorin cuts off with a gasp as his Consort rubs at his tip. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, his voice hoarse with desire. His Consort intoxicates him like nothing else, and Thorin wants nothing more than to be marked and owned by this man.

He feels more than sees his Consort kissing away his moans, one hand reaching for the nightstand again as the other continues to stroke them both closer and closer to climax. But just when Thorin thinks it can’t get better, he hears the snap of a glove and the click of a bottle, and moments later his Consort’s fingers are teasing at his hole. “Is that what you want, hm?” asks his Consort, slipping a finger inside him. “You want my cock in your tight little ass?”

“Please,” whimpers Thorin as his Consort adds another finger.

The other man hums, scissoring his fingers gently. “You’re so relaxed, so warm. Have you been preparing yourself for me?”

Thorin’s cheeks flare up, but he nods, and is rewarded with a crook of his Consort’s fingers in order to better brush up against his prostate. Blinking stars from his vision, Thorin bucks himself against his Consort’s fingers as best as he can.

His Consort’s fingers slide out. “All in good time,” he reassures at the sound of Thorin’s needy whine, rolling on a condom as he says that. He lines himself up, the tip of his cock barely brushing against Thorin’s hole, and squeezes Thorin’s hand twice.

Thorin responds almost immediately, causing his Consort to chuckle wrily before starting to ease into him. The lube is slick and he’s been stretched, but nothing quite compares to the fullness of his Consort’s cock inside him. It’s not a foreign feeling, not by a long shot. Thorin has been penetrated by most of his previous partners, but everything with Bilbo feels like the first time.

His Consort’s eyes are closed, but they open slowly, eyelashes fluttering golden against flushed cheeks “God, you feel exquisite,” his Consort murmurs. “My dirty little pet, so warm and tight — god, you’re fuckable.”

Just hearing these dirty phrases tumbling out of his Consort’s mouth brings Thorin even closer to climax, though it only gets better from there — the instant his Consort starts to move within him, Thorin forgets his own name. All that matters is the slide of their bodies together, the rhythm of their hips. He’s helpless and vulnerable beneath his Consort; the restraints make him unable to do much other than let himself be cared for. It’s a new feeling, and he’s sure he doesn’t ever want to get used to it.

Another two squeezes to his hands. Thorin squeezes back, and cries aloud as his Consort’s hips move faster in response, thrusting harder and deeper within him. He’s not quite sure where pain ends and pleasure begins, both sensations are so intense within him right now. All he really knows is that his Consort tugs his hair in a way that makes him cry with delight, and leaves bite marks and hickies on his neck that he would wear with pride.

But it’s a simple brush of his Consort’s fingers against Thorin’s cock that really undoes him; Thorin tumbles over the edge of pleasure then, and finds Bilbo falling with him as he comes.

* * *

“I’ll order the collar tomorrow,” says Bilbo after they’ve cleaned up and are lying in bed together, their arms wrapped around one another. Bilbo rests his head on Thorin’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. In response, Thorin closes his eyes, savouring the warmth of his partner’s body pressed against him.

“I can’t wait,” replies Thorin.

Bilbo chuckles. “I can’t wait to see you wearing it,” he murmurs, pressing gentle kisses to where Thorin’s heartbeat flutters. Thorin exhales slowly, smiling down at Bilbo, whose own expression has softened into something so very soft and vulnerable. It makes Thorin wrap his arms tighter around him and silently make so many promises that he’s not sure if he can keep.

He thinks of Smaug’s parting remarks. _Your Dominant can’t possibly satisfy_ all _of those nasty little fantasies in your head_. It makes him shudder, because out of all the lies Smaug had dealt, this one was the truth. Bilbo wouldn’t readily agree to something that appears dubious or not consensual, and yet Thorin still dreams and fantasises about being taken by him in such a way.

The guilt and shame creep up a little more in his chest, and he tries to dispel the thoughts and fantasies, to little avail.

“Are you too cold?” asks Bilbo suddenly. Thorin frowns. “You’re shivering.”

“No, no.” The word tumbles out of Thorin’s mouth faster than he anticipates. “I’m fine.”

“You say that a lot, especially when you’re actually the opposite,” remarks Bilbo. “Surely you can tell me what you’re thinking.”

Thorin shakes his head. He thinks back to Smaug’s words at the party. The man had claimed that Thorin’s marks seem familiar, that he could smell the woody musk aftershave Bilbo uses. Perhaps the old dungeon monitor at the last munch was right. Smaug _knows_. And that chills Thorin like nothing else.

Though he lies in Bilbo’s arms, Thorin drifts into an uneasy sleep with disquieting thoughts on his mind.


	14. Of Faith and Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last section has a mention of a sexually-motivated murder, so please proceed at your own discretion. I've made the language as non-graphic as possible (as it is a case description) but still, take care.

The first thing Thorin sees in the morning is the golden halo of light that is Bilbo’s hair caught in the sunlight filtering through the window. Bilbo is still asleep, the comforter only barely draped over his perfect ass. Thorin itches to touch it, to run his hands over the curve and feel the softness of his Consort’s skin.

Instead he lies there, silently counting Bilbo’s eyelashes, mentally tracing each of Bilbo’s freckles and dimples into tiny constellations, reverently watching the dust motes dance golden-bright above Bilbo’s head. From the nightstand, his phone sounds an alarm for ten in the morning. Casey should have opened up shop by now; Bilbo says they’re getting into the habit of opening without him on Saturdays.

His hand covers one of Bilbo’s where it lies in between them on the bed. He squeezes gently, bringing his lips to the very tip to kiss them softly. Bilbo shifts a little in his sleep, eyelids fluttering in tandem with Thorin’s own heart.

Slowly he moves himself closer and kisses Bilbo. It starts out as a peck, but to Thorin’s surprise, Bilbo reacts to it. His eyes open; his mouth crinkles into a smile; with a small yawn he shifts closer to Thorin, pressing their bodies together.

The first touch of Bilbo’s skin against his still sends tingles down his spine every time. Bilbo is so warm and soft against him, and yet this softness has an underlying strength to it that thrills Thorin every time he feels it. Bilbo traces the faintly mottled love bites on Thorin’s collarbone, smirking.

Thorin shifts so that he’s hovering over Bilbo, his legs on both sides of the other man’s body. Bilbo looks up at him with a grin, his eyes adoring, and Thorin smiles in return as he leans down to kiss him.

“Good morning, Beloved,” he murmurs.

“Good morning to you too,” replies Bilbo with a yawn. “What are we doing?”

“Shush,” murmurs Thorin. “Let me do this for you.” And he rolls his hips against Bilbo’s, causing the other man to inhale sharply.

“Thorin —” Bilbo whispers, his voice breathless, but Thorin cuts him off with a kiss. Bilbo hums into the kiss, his hands wrapping around Thorin’s shoulders and bringing him close.

Slowly Thorin moves down Bilbo’s body, worshipping it with fingers and lips. Bilbo’s fingers curl in his hair as Thorin gently sucks at each nipple. He then moves down and presses kisses to Bilbo’s soft abdomen, eliciting a couple sleepy giggles as he blows raspberries against Bilbo’s bellybutton.

The giggles turn into soft breathy moans when Thorin moves even farther down to Bilbo’s cock, licking a long salacious stripe down the shaft as his hands ghost along Bilbo’s thighs. The fingers in his hair curl tighter, causing Thorin to moan against Bilbo’s cock as he takes it into his mouth. Bilbo bucks his hips upwards into Thorin’s mouth, causing him to gag slightly, but he grips his partner’s hips all the same to keep him in place so he can continue.

It’s a quiet, sleepy affair. Bilbo is receptive to Thorin’s touch, though considerably quieter. Thorin’s not entirely sure if that’s Bilbo’s usual habits or if he’s still tired. Either way, with each caress, each kiss, he’s rewarded with a smile, a sigh, a tug of his hair. And the best reward, of course, is how Bilbo becomes completely undone at his hands, a soft cry of Thorin’s name on his lips as he comes all over Thorin’s face. That’s easily cleaned with tissues, though Bilbo makes short work of that by yanking Thorin into a much more lively kiss.

“What a wonderful wake-up call, my pet,” murmurs Bilbo, hints of the Consort flickering in his eyes as he presses a finger to Thorin’s lips. Obediently, Thorin’s tongue flickers out to lick at it. Bilbo hums in satisfaction, and kisses him a little harder. “I think that deserves a reward, don’t you?”

Thorin can’t agree more.

* * *

“I’d have thought that with our business concluded, you’d be free to return to the States.”

Thorin crosses his arms, scowling across the table at Smaug von Brandt, who sits across from him idly twirling a very heavy-looking fountain pen.

“I am free to do as I please,” replies Smaug.

“I’m working,” retorts Thorin. Which is a bit of a lie, as he’s spent the past couple minutes scrolling through his and Bilbo’s texts. After taking his neck, wrist, and ankle measurements, Bilbo’s been sending him screenshots of the collars he’s considering buying, wanting to know which one Thorin likes best.

 **_The shop owner Bifur told me they’re all customisable to a degree_ **   
**_BB_ **

**_I’m thinking of asking for silver acorn detailing on this one._ **   
**_BB_ **

**_< file: collar.png>_ **   
**_BB_ **

**_What do you think?  
xoxo BB _ **

“Working hard, I see,” drawls Smaug from across the desk.

“This is my own space. Please leave,” says Thorin without looking up from his phone.

**_I love it. -T_ **

“Don’t be rude,” says Smaug.

“Rude!” snorts Thorin. “I at least don’t _sniff_ people I’m trying to work out a business partnership with! You’ve done nothing but make me uncomfortable.”

“Are you sure you are, entirely? Perhaps what makes you uncomfortable are all the desires that your mind forbids you, but your body wants.”

Thorin frowns, looking up from his phone. “Did you just quote A.G. Defiler?” he demands.

Smaug arches an eyebrow. “Have you read those books?”

“My sister lent me her copies. I couldn’t make it through the first one.”

Smaug chuckles. “Then it’s clear you cannot see that the role of the submissive is to give themselves up, mind, body, and soul, to the Dominant.”

Thorin scowls. “I’m a submissive, not a doormat. My compliance comes with conditions and limits. Besides, you’re not my Dominant, so what does it matter to you?”

Smaug bristles quite visibly at that. He stands up, leaning on the desk with his face looming far too close to Thorin’s for comfort. Thorin stares back, unfazed.

“Allow me to show you the bottom line, Thorin Oakenshield,” Smaug snarls. “Gundabad Enterprises has more than enough money to purchase your little company. We’ll call it a merger, or perhaps an acquisition. We’ll maintain separate names for the two, but your business and all of the innovations within that you and your family have prized for generations will be mine. If you do not behave and keep silent, the Arkenstone system, the new heart of your company, will be _mine_.”

“Why would you go to such lengths?” asks Thorin, brows furrowing.

“Unruly submissives must be punished,” replies Smaug.

“I’m not your submissive.”

“You aren’t, yes.”

“So why do you care about controlling me?”

Smaug steeples his fingers and smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

That same uneasy spike of coldness jolts down Thorin’s spine. _Smaug von Brandt knows_. It fills his mind until there is no room for any other thoughts. _He knows. Smaug von Brandt knows_.

And Bilbo is in even more danger than he’d originally anticipated.

**_I just placed an order. It should be at Bag End in a week or two.  
xoxo BB_ **

**_Can’t wait -T_ **

Thorin takes a long, deep exhale. “Your sentiments are understood, Mr von Brandt,” he says through gritted teeth, his knuckles white on his phone where Bilbo’s latest message is displayed:

**_You’re going to look irresistible in it. I can’t wait to put it on you.  
xoxo BB _ **

* * *

Dís drags him into shopping with her for her baby shower. They place an order for the cake; it’s one of those innocent little things with a stork topping, though Thorin is fairly certain everyone in attendance at the party — especially Bilbo — knows exactly how babies are made. Dís’s social circle is mostly fellow mums, some with professional careers and others primarily stay-at-home mothers, but practically all of them have read and absolutely love A.G. Defiler’s trashy erotic novels.

“I can’t believe you still call me before and after your meetings with Bilbo,” Dís muses as she compares the prices of two sets of plastic cups. “I mean, I know he’s coming over pretty much every single Friday night now. We might as well drop it.”

“Don’t you want to know that I’m still alive after my encounters with him?” jokes Thorin.

“I know you are. It’s been months, and I already trusted the guy long before he started...seeing you.” She laughs. “Don’t know if ‘dating’ is the right term, considering the two of you jumped right into whips and chains and whatnot.”

“Things could happen that are beyond our control,” Thorin points out.

“As long as you’re not asking him to asphyxiate you or something, I’m fine.”

Thorin balks at that. “I’m pretty sure breathplay’s a hard limit for both of us.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Dís chuckles. “Good to know.” She pauses, and puts one of the sets of cups in the basket Thorin’s carrying for her. “How is Bilbo doing, by the way? I went into his shop recently; he hasn’t looked very well, the poor dear.”

Thorin pales, his hand flying to the phone in his pocket. “I didn’t hear about this. Did you talk to him?”

“He usually helps me select things personally, given that I’m your sister and everything, but the last time I was there he let Rosie handle me instead. He looked like he could use a pick-me-up. I suggested getting him a cuppa from the coffeeshop down the street when he rang me up for some more of Víli’s favourite dental dams, but he insisted he was fine.”

“How tired did he look?”

“I think he had shadows under his eyes. Looks like he hasn’t slept in ages.”

Thorin’s dialling Bilbo’s number even as she speaks. The call goes to his answering machine. Thorin frowns at his phone, checks the clock. It’s still work hours; maybe Bilbo’s just not near his phone.

“He didn’t look so bad the last time I saw him,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead as he puts his phone away and hefts the basket again. “I should’ve asked — god, I’m so —”

“Trouble in paradise?” Dís asks.

“Not between the two of us. Not really.” Thorin shrugs. “It’s just… things from the past.”

“I never quite liked that one ex of yours, the one with the angry chihuahua —”

“No, not one of mine. One of Bilbo’s. It’s a long story.” He grimaces at the onesie that Dís had put into the basket as a joke, the one that read ‘ _Nine Months Ago My Mummy Read_ The Dragon’s Dungeon’” in an irritatingly cutesy font. Thorin has the urge to track down the person who approved that design and hit them over the head with a two-by-four.

He’s not sure what to make of this irrational anger every time something even vaguely related to Smaug von Brandt or that dratted A.G. Defiler novel series comes up. It’s probably wreaking havoc on his blood pressure.

They run into Primula at a Tesco’s; she’s halfway down the dairy aisle and still in her hospital nurse’s scrubs. “Didn’t know you get your groceries in London,” Thorin remarks when he sees her, and Primula laughs.

“Not usually,” she admits. “Shift ended a little late, so I’m grabbing things for dinner on my way home. Are you coming by?”

Thorin realises it’s a Thursday. “I would hate to impose —” he begins, thinking of the rather disastrous last dinner he had at her house in Surrey.

“Oh, I’m sure Drogo wouldn’t mind, and Bilbo definitely wouldn’t. Would be a nice surprise for him.”

“I was actually thinking of surprising him at work sometime, so we’re fine on the surprises, I think,” says Thorin. “Drogo doesn’t cook roast beef _every_ Thursday, right? Because _that_ might convince me to change my mind.”

“I think he’s doing a salmon dish today.” Primula looks past him at Dís, who’s paused in her milk selection to stare at the two of them. “Is she your…”

“Sister,” says Thorin. Primula nods.

“I thought so. I’m Primula Brandybuck, Bilbo’s cousin.” She extends a hand for Dís to shake.

“Dís Durin,” Dís replies with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise!” Primula nods at Dís’s pregnant belly. “When’s the little one due?”

“July. I know, coming up very fast. I’m excited.”

“Well, congratulations,” replies Primula with a grin. “I’m only a month along, myself.”

“You are? That’s wonderful!” Dís turns to Thorin. “How come you didn’t tell me Kíli’s going to get a playmate?”

“It wasn’t my place to tell — and you’re calling the kid Kíli now?”

“Víli wouldn’t shut up about it, and it got more convenient than ‘my future child’ or ‘the baby’.”

“Oh, so it’s just shorthand, I see.” Thorin grins. He nods at Primula. “I don’t know if I told you, either, but… congratulations.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Primula, smiling, but when Dís turns back to the milk she leans in and adds in a whisper, “Bilbo called me and said there’s been a strange black car driving around outside his house. It’s also made trips to my house, too. I thought I’d let you know because… well, you know.” She stares levelly at him. “Did you know Smaug was the CEO of Gundabad?”

“Oh, you read the papers?” Thorin asks. Primula raises an eyebrow, undeterred. “No, I didn’t until the past month. Even then, there are a lot of other pressures that are making me stay in this. I don’t have any choice.”

“That’s what Bilbo thought, too,” Primula snaps. “There’s always a choice.”

“And that choice has made Smaug threaten me with a complete acquisition of Erebor if I don’t keep my mouth shut about this entire ordeal.”

“Would you rather he stayed and — oh, I don’t know — _died_?” Primula’s expression is furious. Thorin looks around him wildly, hoping Dís and other shoppers wouldn’t hear.

“No,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t like this any more than you do, and I wish I had some way of cutting Smaug out of the picture without damaging anything else.”

“There must be ways,” hisses Primula. “I could press charges, but you know what the criminal justice system is like, especially with someone rich and powerful like Smaug. The charges won’t stick. You’ve got more clout and connections than I do. Help me _make_ them stick.”

Thorin nods. “I think I know who to contact,” he says.

* * *

“I’ve got news for you, Thorin,” DI Ironfoot declares during a call at lunchtime. Thorin is sitting on the terrace of the downstairs café in Erebor’s headquarters with half a panini and a pickily-eaten salad in front of him. It’s Friday, which means Thorin’s checking his watch every five minutes or so, as if trying to make the clock go faster with the power of his glares alone.

“What news?” Thorin asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I got the name of the student who apparently consented to letting Smaug von Brandt walk him in public with a collar on,” says Dáin. “Fellow by the name of James Bracegirdle. His records show that he’s gotten married since the incident, has a child, and quietly lives in Sussex.”

Thorin lets go of the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Other folks, however, might not have gotten off as luckily, I imagine,” continues Dáin, causing Thorin to inhale again. “A little digging has led me to suspect that there might be some cases we could link to Mr von Brandt.”

“Cases?” echoes Thorin.

There’s a pause. “You are interested in this, right? I’m probably putting my job on the line in letting you know all of this, but I reckoned you were interested, given your reaction at the party. Though I wouldn’t want to tell you something that’d unsettle you; some of this stuff is pretty grisly, if you ask me.”

Thorin takes a deep breath, thinks of Primula and Bilbo. “I _need_ to know,” he says.

“Well, thank god I’m not at the Yard right now.” Dáin chuckles. “The details were actually quite memorable. Cold case from about five years ago, couple months after the fiasco with Mr Bracegirdle. Farmhouse in Lancashire, fairly remote. Victim was also university-aged, male, died from organ failure caused by the improper use of a riding crop, with repeated impact to the kidneys.”

Thorin grimaces, takes a stab at his salad. “And what makes you think those cases are linked?”

“The von Brandt family owns the nearby property,” replies Dáin. “Coincidence, I know, but records show that Mr von Brandt left the country a couple weeks after the second case. Like I said, the second one’s a cold one, I don’t actually have any proof that he did it, but —”

“I am trying to protect someone,” Thorin blurts out.

Silence. Dáin’s seems a bit stunned.

Thorin sighs, and speaks up again. “This someone… Smaug von Brandt has hurt him in the past. He might hurt him again if I do not make sure this… this _maniac_ is behind bars. I need everything you’ve got, please. I want Smaug von Brandt unable to harm any more people.”

There’s a long pause. And then Dáin speaks up again.

“That’s a noble intention, laddie,” he says. “Don’t know how much help I can be until you find some good, hard incriminating evidence, though.” He pauses. “I mean, your someone could always press charges, testify in court —”

“I want evidence, too,” says Thorin. “I want it to be irrefutable.”

“You must really care about this someone,” chuckles Dáin.

Thorin shakes his head, and checks his watch. “It’s how I best serve them,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic aurasama has drawn more gorgeous illustrations and cover art for this fic, which you can see [here](http://aurasama.tumblr.com/post/114426993623/more-appreciation-for-shades-of-red-and-gold-by) and [here](http://aurasama.tumblr.com/post/114874150033/i-am-not-sure-how-this-happened-exactly-but-i).


	15. Wants and Collars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write a new chapter I think 'ah yes, this is the filthiest smut I've ever written'. And then I go and prove myself wrong. The sex in this chapter is kinda rough if that's not your cup of tea. Apparently it's Thorin's though.

Bilbo Baggins has three nights where he leaves work early. Bag End closes at ten, which means on Tuesdays and Thursdays it’s only Casey and Rosie in the shop, and from Friday night to Saturday morning it’s only Casey, until Bilbo joins them on Saturday afternoon.

“I’m considering adding a third member to the team,” Bilbo says one night, as they watch a film with Thorin serving as a footrest. Thorin says nothing; this is a test of endurance and silence if nothing else, though his hands and knees are probably going to have carpet marks on them for a while.

The test doesn’t last as long as they’d negotiated it to be. It’s not a dreadfully interesting film, and halfway through Bilbo — or rather, the Consort — turns the telly off and squeezes Thorin’s hand twice. Thorin squeezes back. The discomfort of being perfectly still on his hands and knees while bearing his Consort’s feet on his back is soon forgotten in the ecstasy of a flogger against his shoulders and a riding crop to his bum, and Bilbo’s hands rewarding him with orgasms as he takes in pain and pleasure alike.

Bilbo Baggins has three nights when he leaves work early, one of those nights being reserved for Thorin. The other two are not, and Thorin takes the advantage of knowing that Tuesday will find Bilbo at the Green Dragon in the company of uni friends to go to Hulwulzahar and talk to Bombur.

“Ah, I’ve met Bilbo’s drinking buds from uni,” says Bombur with a chuckle. They’re also drinking, albeit they have mugs of hot chocolate, lightly spiced. It’s warm and it runs richly down Thorin’s throat. The whipped cream gets caught in his moustache and beard, and Thorin apologetically wipes it off with a napkin. “Linguists, the bloody lot of them. Always joking about how they’re very good with their tongues.” He chortles. “Very good with their tongues in their _own_ mouths, perhaps!”

Thorin smiles. “But they’re alright people, right? None of them could’ve possibly — “

“They do seem trustworthy enough to _me_ , at least,” says Bombur, waving a hand dismissively. “They’re named Lindir Sangster and Erestor Rayne, if you’re curious. Not my type; too tall and willowy, the both of them. They make Bilbo look ridiculously short. I wonder why he goes drinking with them; they’re not the sort who look like they’d frequent some place like the Green Dragon.”

“Neither does that prissy supermodel, and yet he attends munches there,” replies Thorin drily.

“Thranduil’s not that bad, at least not with Bard around. They’re switches to some degree, though that sometimes manifests in them _both_ alternating in ‘being Daddy’, if I do remember the term correctly.” Bombur laughs. “You're into what you're into, I guess, and they _are_  both single fathers.”

“Must make for an interesting discussion of the birds and the bees.” Thorin dips a biscuit into his hot chocolate. “The birds, the bees, and the whips they like to use.”

“Haven’t _you_ got little nephews?”

“I’m sure my sister has had plans for how she’s going to give Fee the Talk long before the kid was even a twinkle in her eye.” Thorin shrugs. “Not my place to barge in.”

“True,” agrees Bombur.

Thorin finishes his biscuit, and then remembers something. “How the hell do you know what Thranduil and Bard do? I thought you lot try to make your munches as unrelated to bedroom habits as possible.”

“Rumours travel fast,” replies Bombur with a grin. “Everyone knows everyone else’s style, whether or not it’s from first hand experience. And it’s not just for our group; there’s a wider community in London, and I could probably tell you all the people who are good at what they do and all the people you should avoid.”

“Given that you run a support group, I would be surprised if you didn’t know who to avoid,” Thorin points out as he dips another biscuit into his hot chocolate.

“The list of people to avoid is not just Doms,” replies Bombur, shrugging. “Bad subs also exist. Overly passive, overly manipulative — everything’s about balance and communication. Submission is an _art_ , Thorin, it’s the art of letting your Dom give you what you want. It’s not always going to be about servicing Bilbo; you need to know what you want and you need to make those wants known.”

Thorin doesn’t want to admit that there’s a definite curling of guilt in his chest at Bombur’s words. He distracts himself by eating his biscuit and finishing his hot chocolate. Bombur nods at him.

“What do you _truly_ want, Thorin?”

* * *

 **_The collar’s here! :) Feel free to come pick it up whenever  
_ ** **_xoxo BB_ **

Thorin hasn’t been in Bag End for a while. He’s stopped by once or twice in the past couple of months, usually for more condoms and lube. Once he came by to pay for the plugs, and Bilbo had insisted then that it was a gift.

Today the bell tinkles cheerily behind him as he steps into the brightly-decorated shop, and part of him is pleased that he’s not blushing brighter than a maraschino cherry as he looks around at all the supplies and products on the shelves. Some of the larger vibrators which had menaced him from their shelves before now seem a lot more harmless, especially after that one time Bilbo had used his Hitachi Magic Wand on Thorin and blew out both him and the fuse in one go. Seeing Bilbo come up with a clever lie for the electrician was just the cherry on the entire sundae of an experience.

Bilbo now comes to greet him from behind the counter, wrapping him in a hug by the foreplay games table. Perhaps it’s because he and Bilbo are now partners that the entire store’s taken on a new kind of excitement for him. Now he’s more curious about everything; now he wants to push even further out of his comfort zone with all the goodies Bag End has to offer him.

“Here for the collar?” Bilbo whispers in his ear just before they break apart.

“No, I’m here for the metal plug with the magnetic bunny tail,” says Thorin almost sarcastically, but then he laughs. “Definitely here for the collar.”

“You could get the plug, too,” Bilbo points out.

“Maybe some other time,” replies Thorin. “When I’ve gotten more courage or less shame, whichever comes first.”

“I think you’d look fantastic in a bunny plug,” replies Bilbo with a wink. “Add a nice set of lingerie to go with it, and you’d be irresistible.”

Thorin feels his ears heating up. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes. You’ve got lovely legs for thigh-highs and suspender belts.”

“I’ll...I’ll think about it.” Thorin chuckles nervously, feeling the blush starting to spread. Just when he’d gotten comfortable with the products on the shelves, Bilbo has to go and open up new avenues of fantasies for him.

Of course, always at the back of his mind are the ones that plague his dreams, the ones he furiously represses every time he talks to Bilbo. He’s not Smaug. He never wants to force Bilbo into such a position with him. And yet —

Bilbo has gotten one of the silky blindfolds from the boudoir lingerie table and is tying it around Thorin’s eyes. “No peeking,” the shorter man says, taking Thorin’s hands. Thorin follows obediently, somewhat glad that the shop isn’t filled with customers at this moment.

Just before Bilbo leads him into the back room, the bell at the front door tinkles. “I’ll get that!” Rosie shouts from the direction of the counter. Thorin hears the door to the back room unlock, and moments later Bilbo’s hand is at the small of his back, guiding him inside.

He stands there a bit stupidly. The lock clicks into place, and then he hears Bilbo bustling around the room. Blindly groping about, Thorin discovers that the back room is fairly cramped with shelves and boxes everywhere his hands touch.

“Don’t go wandering off,” Bilbo’s voice warns him.

Thorin puts his hands back by his side. He grins sheepishly, earning himself a chuckle and then the sound of Bilbo’s receding footsteps. Thorin hears faintly through the walls of the back room the sounds of Rosie informing the new customer about proper condom usage.

“All right.” Bilbo’s voice is a soft whisper against the shell of Thorin’s ear, causing shivers to run down Thorin’s spine. Bilbo’s lips press against his then, and then his hands untie the blindfold.

When they break from the kiss Thorin takes a step back to see Bilbo holding a box in his hands. It’s long and black, and it opens up to show four cuffs and a collar, all made out of black leather with soft silver-blue leather lining the inside. Silver buckles and rings twinkle up at him, combined with small silver acorn detailing.

Thorin smiles down at the set. “It’s beautiful.”

“Bifur did a good job,” agrees Bilbo. “I shall have to write him a thank-you note.”

Thorin sets the box down on a nearby shelf. “I want to put them on right now,” he admits.

“Oh, we’d never find enough space to tie you up properly in here,” laughs Bilbo. “But god, I want it, too. I want to see you wearing this collar with your wrists and ankles bound, worshipping my cock like the good little pet you are.”

Thorin groans at the mental image. “Friday,” he promises.

“Friday,” agrees Bilbo, and tugs him down by his tie into a kiss.

It’s heat and rush and desire, feelings that Thorin welcomes after so many moments of tenderness and sensuality. Everything Bilbo gives him, he treasures, but it’s this roughness he especially craves because Bilbo has been so delicate with him for the most part. Thorin wants to be spanked hard and taken roughly; he wants to be used and fucked mercilessly by Bilbo so badly that it hurts. But he also has to tiptoe around Bilbo with these desires, because he knows how vulnerable his partner is, especially with his past coming back to haunt him.

Bilbo has been nothing but kindness and patience, easing Thorin farther and farther away from the things he’s used to and comfortable with, and now Thorin knows that he wants to fly; he wants to plunge into the darker parts of his fantasies. But there’s always the past that stops him, there’s always a reminder that Bilbo has his own demons to overcome before they can even proceed safely down these avenues together. His partner says that he’s fine, but Thorin suspects it’s mostly just a lie to distract himself from his own inaction.

Bilbo bites at his lips, shoves him against the boxes, and Thorin welcomes it, welcomes him by slipping his hands under Bilbo’s cardigan, digging his nails into Bilbo’s hips. He wants every single mark Bilbo gives him, be it from his teeth and hands or from his crop and flogger. Panting and moaning against Bilbo’s lips, Thorin loses himself in the wonderful roughness with which Bilbo kisses and rubs up against him, loses himself in the feeling of hands tugging at his hair and teeth pulling at his lips.

There’s a knock at the door, and Bilbo springs away from Thorin, hastily rearranging his shirt and running a hand through his mussed hair, rearranging his skewed glasses. Thorin lingers against the boxes a moment longer, chest heaving and face flushed. He looks even more unpresentable than Bilbo, but he doesn’t care; what matters more is the cute blush tinting Bilbo’s cheeks as Rosie pokes her head in and peers curiously at them.

“Could you two keep it down a bit?” she asks sweetly, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo laughs sheepishly, running a hand through his hair.

“Were we that loud?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, the customers were wondering what the two of you were testing out.” Rosie winks. “Pulling your leg, boss, you weren’t that loud. But there were some funny thumps.”

Bilbo’s blush deepens. “Anyone need help out there?”

“A tall businessman came in asking for you, but Casey kicked him out for some reason.” Rosie shrugs. “I didn’t know we did that.”

“Apparently we do now,” says Bilbo, a slight brittle edge coming into his voice as he says that.

“Casey meant well, I’m sure,” Thorin remarks.

Bilbo nods. “I know,” he says, and Thorin takes his hand as they leave the back room.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins has three nights when he leaves work early, and this Friday night finds Thorin on his knees in front of him while he lounges on the throne of the Kingdom of Erebor.

His Consort is indolently arrayed in his blue robes, the collar resting carelessly in his hands. Thorin watches it intently, and his Consort smirks when he notices, leaning forward with the collar dangling in his hands.

“Would you like me to collar you, Your Majesty?” he breathes.

Thorin nods. “Please, my Beloved,” he whispers. His Consort swings his legs down from the armrests of the throne, and Thorin notices with a jolt that the other man is in a black suspender belt with fishnets and boots, his cock peeking out of the lacy black knickers accompanying the entire set. He shifts a little on his knees as he feels himself getting hard at the sight.

“Enjoying the view?” his Consort asks. Thorin nods. “I knew you would, you naughty pet.” A light teasing smack to his cheek, and then his Consort is fitting the collar around his neck. “Is it too tight?”

Thorin shakes his head. The collar is soft and rests snugly, but not uncomfortably, against his neck. He looks upwards towards his Consort, who in turn presses his fingers to his mouth. Thorin kisses it, and the fingers drift away.

“Have you been a bad little king lately?” asks his Consort. Thorin bites his lip. “You were very loud the other day, weren’t you? We attracted attention to ourselves.”

“I’m sorry, my Beloved,” says Thorin, contrition seeping into his voice.

His Consort nods, and calmly presses his thumb against Thorin’s lips. Thorin opens his mouth, tongue darting out to lick at his Consort’s thumb.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to gag you,” says his Consort, and reaches into the pocket of his robe. Moments later the thumb in Thorin’s mouth is replaced by the ball of a ball gag, which is then secured around his head. His Consort tilts his head up, looks into his eyes with a small smirk. “You look delectable,” he whispers.

Thorin’s moans drown around the ball of the gag. All that comes out is a muffled squeak. His Consort chuckles, and then moves onto binding his wrists together.

“Up,” he instructs, once Thorin’s wrists are bound by the cuffs, and slowly Thorin clambers to his feet. His Consort bends him over the throne again, this time tying his ankles to spreader bars. The exposure and vulnerability gets Thorin every time; it sends chills down his spine to know that his Consort has so much access to him.

“Shall we test how effective your new gag is?” asks his Consort. Thorin nods, and bites the gag as his Consort spanks him, firm but not quite as hard as he’s used to. There’s a squeeze at his hands, and he squeezes back.

“How hard do you want it?” his Consort asks.

Thorin’s fingers squeeze furiously. _Is this the best you can do_? he thinks, and his Consort chuckles darkly as he steps back from the throne again.

“I can’t read your mind, but I imagine you’re being a very bratty king,” he says. Moments later the hand comes back again, even harder. Thorin moans. _More, more,_ he thinks. The gag prevents him from being forced to articulate the darker side of him that he’s bottled up, and in a way that frees him — he has so many other ways to suggest it without making Bilbo run for the hills.

The hand comes back again and again, until Thorin’s arse feels heated and numb and his brain not much beyond a warm fog with only the thought ‘more’ lingering in his higher functions. He doesn’t remember the time, the date; he doesn’t even know his own name. He could be in the throne room of an imaginary kingdom, or sprawled over his own (now-covered) armchair in his living room — all that matters is more. More pain, more pleasure, more Bilbo.

And before he knows it, his Consort is squeezing his hand again. He squeezes back, and then he finds his wrists being untied and a ring of keys pressed into his left hand.

“Dangle the keys if you want to slow down, drop it if you want to stop,” his Consort whispers. “We were just warming up.”

Thorin clutches the keys in his hand as the spanking starts up again, this time unhampered by the need to stop and squeeze his hand. He finds himself starting to drool the longer the gag is in his mouth, and the indignity only adds to his excitement. Maybe it’s because of the kiss in Bag End, but Bilbo is being rougher with him now, and he loves it.

The spankings end with soothing caresses again. Thorin wonders how red his ass is now, wonders if his Consort’s left a mark there in the shape of his hand. He hopes he did; he hopes to be marked up with every sign of his Consort’s love that his Consort could give.

He moans into the gag when he feels his Consort’s gloved fingers press against his hole, slicked with lube. The moaning gets louder as the fingers enter him, though all that ever escapes are muffled whimpers and a bit of drool. His Consort’s fingers crook, brushing past his prostate, and Thorin’s screams are effectively muffled into whimpers.

The pleasure is indescribable and overwhelming. His brain is only producing monosyllabic words. _More, more, more_ , he thinks. _Use me. Fuck me hard_.

“What do you want me to do?” his Consort purrs, his fingers continuing to stretch and tease Thorin’s hole. “Nod at me when I say something you want me to do.”

Thorin nods.

“Would you like the plug? Would you like my tongue? Would you like a vibrator, or a dildo?”

A pause. The fingers slip out of him. A tickle of breath at his ear.

“Would you like me inside you?”

Thorin nods, enthusiastically and furiously. A hand tugs at his hair, forcing him to look up at his Consort, whose eyebrow is arched.

“You greedy little pet, you want it hard, don’t you?”

Thorin nods, blushing. His Consort chuckles. There’s the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and moments later Thorin finds himself screaming into the gag once more as his Consort thrusts into him, filling him. He lies heavily against the throne — or maybe the armchair, fuck if his brain knows where his fantasies and realities are — drooling and whimpering as his Consort fucks him hard. His hands close tight around the keys. There’s no way he’s dropping them, not when Bilbo is starting to edge into the roughness that Thorin so desperately wants him to have. He squeezes the tears from his eyes and clutches onto the throne for dear life as his Consort grabs his hips roughly, nails digging in, and pounds him into the throne.

Thorin comes with a muffled scream, gasping for air again as the ball gag is removed from his mouth. He could breathe through his nose during the entire scene; the gag kept his mouth open but silenced, and now that it’s gone he feels the soreness of his jaw a little more acutely. But he doesn’t linger for too long on this; he can feel his cuffs and the spreader bar being removed. Slowly he shifts into a seated position on his covered armchair, watching Bilbo dispose of the gloves and condom before coming back to him.

“How are we doing?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin wraps his arms around him and kisses him, long and hard.

“More,” he murmurs against Bilbo’s lips. “Of what we just did. I liked that.”

Bilbo laughs, stifles a yawn. He takes a seat on the armchair with Thorin in his lap, his arms securely wrapped around his little king. “Are you sure you want me to be that rough?” he asks, and there’s a little bit of uncertainty that makes the guilt curl tighter in Thorin’s chest. He swallows it.

“Well, if _you_ don’t want —” he begins, and Bilbo chuckles, putting a finger to his lips.

“What do _you_ want?” he asks, shrugging off his robes and draping it around Thorin’s shoulders.

Thorin shrugs in reply. His hands meander down to Bilbo’s suspender belt. The suspenders in question are undone and the stockings are slipping because of that, but the knickers have been pulled back up. With a smirk, Thorin slips his hand beneath the cloth and feels Bilbo gasp a little.

He rests his head against Bilbo’s with a soft chuckle. “Let’s move this to the bed,” he suggests. Bilbo raises an eyebrow at him, and Thorin smiles back in reply. He knows that look. Eventually Bilbo’s going to want him to confess.

But maybe there are other ways to tell Bilbo without actually telling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can only buy the Hitachi Magic Wand in North America. It’s at least some form of illegal in the UK, though I’m not sure on whether that’s just for buying/selling or for owning, solely because it has a tendency to blow up foreign sockets. They’re actually rolling out a rechargeable version soon, which is pretty exciting, so I’m sure Bilbo would’ve hopped the pond to smuggle one back home because it _is_ the Cadillac of vibrators, after all. This is probably the most unsafe thing he’s ever done with Thorin — the Magic Wand is pretty much only for US electricity standards!


	16. Background Checks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more mentions of Bilbo's backstory (aka: past abusive relationship) and the Lancashire case (aka: sexually-motivated violence). Another warning for a hint of consentplay, though it's nipped in the bud before things develop.

He notices the scar on Bilbo’s left shoulder in the morning.

It’s a very faint one, having faded over years of care and healing. Thorin wonders how he hadn’t caught it before; he’s seen Bilbo’s shoulders and back numerous times. Granted, most of the time the man was moving about him, and he rarely slept on his belly with his back bared for Thorin’s perusal. Thorin wonders if this could be one of the reasons why.

The scar is thin, vaguely in the shape of an ‘S’. Thorin has a suspicion he knows who put it there, and thus he doesn’t trace its jagged lines with his fingers. He presses kisses to the skin instead, in no specific pattern, as if enough kisses will get rid of this proof that Bilbo had ever been so brutalised in the past.

“Morning.” Bilbo’s voice is thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow.

“Did I tire you out?” Thorin teases.

“Already another round?” wonders Bilbo groggily, opening one eye and looking up at him. “Is subspace you always this frisky?”

Thorin’s hand goes up, feels the collar still snug around his neck. He’d forgotten to take it off, and frankly he doesn’t want to. “Maybe,” he hedges, a little playfully as he presses more kisses to Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo chuckles quietly.

“You seem to really like this shoulder, my pet,” he remarks.

“There’s a scar on it that I want to kiss away,” replies Thorin, and Bilbo’s eyes fly open at that.

“That’s nothing,” he says in a voice that clearly suggests otherwise. Thorin’s brows furrow.

“How did you get that?” he asks.

“I was unruly and had to be punished,” replies Bilbo, a little sullenly.

The happy and fuzzy feelings that had been floating in Thorin’s brain suddenly escape him like air from a deflated balloon. He sits up, one hand tugging at his collar.

“Get this collar off me,” he says. Bilbo sits up as well, gesturing for Thorin to turn around so he can undo the buckle. The collar slides from Thorin’s neck, landing with a soft thump onto the covers. Bilbo then sets the collar on the nightstand and turns back to face Thorin.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and Thorin wonders if his partner’s starting to think that he sounds like he’s a recording on loop.

“I’d rest easier at night if I knew you had a bodyguard,” he says. Bilbo blinks at him. “Look, my personal assistant, Dwalin, has had combat training. He serves as my bodyguard as well as my personal assistant, and he’s the best. I could spare him for a while, take one of the other family guards during the interim. I want you protected as long as that...as long as Smaug von Brandt is here.”

There’s a flicker of defiance in Bilbo’s eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment —” he begins, but Thorin shakes his head.

“This is how I serve you, my Consort. If it’s within my means — and I have a lot of means — to keep you safe and happy, I will. Or aren’t you worried about the black car driving around outside your house?”

“Who told you —”

“Your cousin.”

“I _told_ her not —”

“We’re all worried about you!” exclaims Thorin, and Bilbo falls silent, sinking back against the pillows with a sigh. “You’re trying so hard not to look like you’re affected by any of this, but everyone’s noticing that it’s taken its toll on you. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it sooner, but now that I have, I can’t let that slide. Casey had to kick Smaug out of your own shop. You _need_ protection. I can get you that.”

Bilbo sighs. He reaches out, gently strokes Thorin’s cheek.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks softly. “Sparing Dwalin, or…”

“Yes,” says Thorin. “Whatever it takes.”

Bilbo nods. “Alright, then,” he agrees.

* * *

Things are a little awkward the first time Dwalin meets Bilbo.

“This is your infamous partner?” Dwalin asks Thorin as he looks across the kitchen counter at Bilbo, who has just set down three mugs of tea. Thorin takes a sip of his tea, noticing that Bilbo had remembered to add a teaspoon of honey. It makes him feel fuzzy inside.

“I wouldn’t call him infamous —” Thorin begins, but Bilbo laughs.

“Oh, I’m fine with that. I did hang up rudely on him the last time we talked.” He extends a hand across the counter, shaking Dwalin’s hand. “How do you feel about standing around in a sex toy shop for hours on end?”

Dwalin’s ears go pink, but the rest of his expression doesn’t change. “You run one of those?”

“Bag End Toys and Pleasures. We’re a sex-positive, education-oriented shop paying particular attention to the needs of customers with vaginas, though of course we welcome all other types of people. We also have a special section dedicated to BDSM —”

“Who else works in the store besides yourself?” interjects Dwalin, the colour in his ears turning a vivid red.

“Casey Bolger and Rosie Cotton —”

“They’re going to need background checks.”

“Oh, I can attest to their character —”

“Background. Checks,” repeats Dwalin firmly.

“Don’t scare him, Dwalin,” pleads Thorin, though he suspects that this is Dwalin’s revenge for Bilbo’s phone call all those months ago. The man is known to hold grudges, though Thorin himself really shouldn’t talk about holding grudges.

Bilbo sighs. “If you insist,” he says.

“I do.” Dwalin takes a sip of his own tea. “Family members you regularly interact with?”

“Oh, please, don’t tell me you’re going to run background checks on my cousins!”

“How many cousins do you have?”

“I only ever talk to one,” replies Bilbo with a shrug. “Primula Brandybuck and her husband Drogo Baggins. Did you also want my drinking mates, too?” he adds drily.

“ _Please_ ,” replies Dwalin, with the same amount of dryness. Bilbo sighs, and Thorin stifles a grin with his mug.

* * *

He himself approaches Dwalin’s brother, Balin. The older man is retired, though after Thorin explains the situation Balin readily agrees to take over Dwalin’s place while the man is protecting Bilbo.

“You might have your work cut out for you, laddie,” Balin remarks wryly as they head into the office together. “These old bones aren’t quite what they used to be.”

“Don’t worry too much, Balin,” replies Thorin, though his expression sours the instant he sees who’s in his office. “I’m sure you’ll do a good job.”

“Interesting replacement, Mr Oakenshield,” Smaug remarks the moment Thorin and Balin enter the office.

“What are you doing here?” demands Thorin.

“Don’t be unruly,” retorts Smaug. Thorin feels a chill run down his spine.

High flights often come with hard drops, and mixing subdrop and Smaug is surely a recipe for disaster. Thorin takes a seat across from Smaug, nodding at Balin, who leaves the office with a wary expression.

“Surely you have better things to do than bother me in my office,” Thorin remarks drily.

“As far as anyone else is concerned, I am here to enquire about the status of the new Gundabad headquarters in London,” replies Smaug, steepling his fingers and leering at Thorin over them. Thorin grimaces.

“Those headquarters are not going to be up in a week,” he says. “And we could inform you of the ongoing developments through other methods of communication. For example, there is this astounding new invention they call _email_ —”

“Why the rush to get rid of me?” wonders Smaug.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “I’ve mentioned it before: _you make me uncomfortable_. Is it really no wonder that I would like you to stop appearing in my office?”

Smaug hums. “Very well,” he says, and rises to his feet. Thorin stares at him.

“Very well?” he echoes, eyes narrowing.

“I can see when I am not needed,” replies Smaug coolly.

Thorin exhales.

“However —”

Thorin stiffens again. Smaug folds his hands and tilts his head like a lizard, smirking.

“I am under the impression that you are concealing a certain Mr Baggins from me,” he drawls, taking great care to extend the ‘s’ in Baggins. Thorin feels ice pooling in his stomach.

The smart idea now is not to talk. Not to give him any indication that he knows anything about a ‘certain Mr Baggins’. But being in Smaug von Brandt’s presence has not made Thorin do anything rationally so far; there is always a cocktail of anger and hatred and guilt weighing him down, clouding over his self-preservation and his reason.

“You’ve gone to great lengths to do so, haven’t you, Mr Oakenshield? Gave him your best bodyguard —” he jerks his head in the direction of the office door, to where Balin should be at Dwalin’s desk in the antechamber, “had your people kick me out of his shop, increased police presence both on his and his cousin’s streets —”

“I’m sure that if he wanted you to contact him, he wouldn’t be increasing his personal security in response to you practically _stalking_ him,” hisses Thorin.

“So you believe you have no hand in the matter?” asks Smaug.

Thorin grits his teeth. He’s already inadvertently revealed so much to this man out of sheer anger. At this point he’d do whatever it takes to get Smaug away from him and Bilbo, whatever it takes to restore himself to a saner state of mind.

“What does it matter to you how much of a hand I’ve had in this matter?” he demands. The anger rises in him now, inexorable and inescapable. “So you’ve figured out that Bilbo is my partner. And you, out of some misguided notion that Bilbo is still your sub, are trying to punish the two of us for your own twisted amusement. You make me sick. Not just because you are a miserable worm who cannot comprehend the concept of the word ‘no’, but also because of what you have done to Bilbo.”

Smaug’s expression is fire and fury, though tempered by a cold mask. Thorin isn’t sure how his own anger is showing, but he imagines it probably doesn’t make him look that great.

“At this point I don’t even care if you try to take over Erebor in a hostile acquisition. Go behind my back to the Board of Directors. Convince them, my own family, to fire me. Use all of your power as the head of an American corporation to completely ruin me. It doesn’t matter anymore, because I’ve found something else that matters more than all the mithril in this world, than the Arkenstone at the heart of this company.”

Thorin’s risen from his desk, too, his own fury swelling within him like the waters of a great river.

“There is a man, a man you believed to be no more than a piece of meat to be used and disposed of at your liking, who is to _me_ greater than all the profit I could make in all the years I have been with Erebor.”

He is jabbing a finger into Smaug’s chest now. This is completely reckless; this is the most dangerous thing he could ever do. And he doesn’t care.

“And you cannot reclaim him. Not anymore. Not while I am here to protect him.”

Smaug takes a step back. Thorin turns, slams his hand on the button on his desk that calls for his assistant. Within seconds, Balin is in the room.

“Mr Fundinsson,” says Thorin, his chest still heaving with anger, “have Mr von Brandt escorted from the premises. Use force if necessary.”

Smaug glares at Thorin, and the anger in his eyes say everything. _You’ll regret this_.

“Any future communications regarding the Gundabad headquarters project will be conducted via email or conference call,” continues Thorin, “and always within the presence of at least one other member of the Board of Directors of Erebor Engineering. I do not trust Mr von Brandt’s behaviour when he is alone with me.” A pause. Thorin turns from Smaug and retakes his seat. “We’re done here.”

He turns his attentions to his computer with its reports waiting for him, as Balin practically drags Smaug from the room.

* * *

The rest of the week is perhaps one of the most relaxing ones Thorin has had in a while. The threat of Smaug von Brandt is reduced somewhat by the man’s absence, though rumour has it (in both his professional and private circles) that he has yet to leave the country.

“Biding his time,” Dáin remarks darkly at lunch on Friday. “The more I dig into his records the worse it gets. You shouldn’t have provoked him like that; it puts you as a high-risk victim.”

They’re sitting across from one another in the downstairs restaurant of Erebor headquarters. Thorin looks up from his iced tea with a shrug.

“I maintain that the person I’m trying to protect is at even higher risk still.”

“As long as your Dwalin’s with him, I’m not too concerned about your someone,” says Dáin. “I just want to know what the hell _you’re_ thinking, Thorin.”

“Have you any more information for me?” Thorin snaps.

Dáin sighs a long-suffering sigh. “History of violence, but you’re probably not surprised about that. No criminal charges, though I suspect money had something to do with that. Aside from the indecency incident with Mr Bracegirdle, there’s nothing explicitly linking him to anything. However, I do have some… information from the Lancashire case for you.”

He hands Thorin his phone, where the camera roll displays a couple crime scene and autopsy photos.

“These were snuck from the file. Like I said, my job’s on the line here, and I don’t know how well any of this would hold up in court if push comes to shove, but —”

“What’s that on his shoulder?” Thorin asks suddenly, holding up the autopsy photo of the unknown student from Lancashire.

Dáin squints at it. “Dunno, the originals had a much higher resolution.”

Thorin hands the phone back. “If you could check the autopsy for any scars or wounds that could have led to scarring and get back to me on that, that would be appreciated.”

Dáin raises an eyebrow on him. “ _You_ have a lead?” he asks, almost incredulously.

“I don’t know,” admits Thorin. “Maybe.”

* * *

“At last,” murmurs his Consort, the flogger trailing along Thorin’s shoulder as he kneels, bound with ropes and gagged, at his Consort’s feet. “My own king for my own pleasures.”

They’d negotiated this. Thorin would be ‘captured’ by Bilbo and flogged before he gives in to the pleasure and lets his Consort take him. At least, that’s what the situation is supposed to be, before things go south.

Thorin’s lost in the fantasy of being captured. He’s lost in his darker wishes of being held down and taken. In his mind, he is a proud king unwilling to bend his will to his tormentor’s, at least not until his pleasure and shame overtake him and he finds himself enjoying his captor’s sweet tortures.

And so he strains at his bonds, screams through his gag. He will not bow, he will not bend. He will fight his way from this, even though a part of him knows he will lose.

The problem is, _Bilbo_ hadn’t anticipated resistance.

“Smaug!” The safeword rips through Thorin’s fantasy. The name brings him grinding to a standstill, and his mind clears to see Bilbo — not the Consort, definitely not — standing in front of him, suddenly very small in overwhelmingly luxurious blue robes, his expression bewildered and frightened.

“Is there something wrong?” Thorin asks as Bilbo removes the gag from him and cuts through the ropes tying him down.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bilbo asks, and though his expression is scared his voice is barely containing his anger. Thorin blinks.

“Fantasising,” he says cautiously.

“We didn’t negotiate resistance,” says Bilbo. “Not to the degree you gave me. I couldn’t continue. You were struggling like you genuinely wanted out of the situation.”

“I wasn’t.”

Bilbo stares at him, long and hard. Thorin rubs his wrists as the last of the rope is cut away, rising to his feet and staring back.

When Bilbo speaks up again, his voice is soft. “How long have you wanted this?” he asks, gesturing to the ropes. “The...the consentplay fantasies. How long have you had them?”

Thorin feels his face heating up. “Since...since before all of…” he clears his throat, wipes some drool from his mouth. “Since before you invited me to your cousin’s house for dinner.”

“That long?” breathes Bilbo. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 _Ah, that_ is _the question, isn’t it_? Thorin thinks sardonically. “Because of what I knew about you,” he says. “ _Because_ of Smaug. Because…” he sighs. “I didn’t want to bring it up because I knew you wouldn’t —”

“So you thought you’d just, what, resist me in a scene we didn’t negotiate any resistance for?” demands Bilbo, and all the breath leaves Thorin at the sheer anger in his partner’s voice. “These are things we have to talk about, Thorin!”

“As if you’ve been forthcoming at all about your own issues!” he bites back, and Bilbo’s eyes go wide. “You’re not okay, Bilbo. You’re not fine. Some parts of what has happened to you in the past still continue to… to haunt you, and that’s… it’s valid. It’s fine that you’re not as healed as you would like to be. I wish you’d talk to me about that.”

“Don’t make this a conversation about —”

“Then when are we ever going to have a conversation about it?” Thorin demands, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m not fine, you’re not fine, and the funny thing is, I would’ve been a lot more comfortable sharing what was on my mind if I wasn’t so busy tiptoeing around you on this issue!”

“You _shouldn’t_ have done that!” shouts Bilbo.

And then it gets silent. Uncomfortably silent. For a long while, neither of them say a word. And then Thorin sighs, and puts some distance between himself and his Consort.

“I’m sorry, my Beloved,” he says quietly. “I’ve been bad, and I will take some time to reflect on it.”

“Don’t —” Bilbo begins, but Thorin shakes his head.

“I’m punishing myself by not allowing myself to touch you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bilbo snaps.

“It is the most effective form of punishment,” replies Thorin drily. “If I were allowed to touch you, I wouldn’t be able to stop. And then what lesson would I have learnt?”

Bilbo’s eyes are oddly shiny. He takes the soft blanket, then, and moves towards Thorin, draping it around his shoulders before the other man can react.

“We can talk about this later,” he says, taking deep breaths to maintain his calmness as he does so. “We can have a long conversation about all of this when our emotions aren’t so raw. I won’t… I won’t hide anything from you anymore, Thorin, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll do the same.”

Thorin says nothing, feeling a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow. He looks down at his partner, his Consort, his wonderful and forgiving Bilbo. Who was he to deserve someone like this?

“Do you want me to stay?” Bilbo asks. Thorin shakes his head.

“Not tonight,” he says quietly.

Bilbo nods, takes a couple steps back. “I’ll be in touch,” he promises. “We’ll have the talk soon.”

Thorin nods, and he only lets the tears fall once Bilbo is out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say happy April Fool's, but this isn't a fake chapter, so that's completely moot. 
> 
> That being said, I'm not going to keep these two dorks unhappy for very long, so don't worry!


	17. Teatimes With Bilbo Baggins

He was an unexpected customer, that’s for sure.

If Bilbo Baggins were ever to write an autobiography, the entire section of the book about Thorin Oakenshield — which he sincerely hopes is more than a chapter — would begin exactly like that.

An unexpected customer on a completely expected day. Late February, to be exact. Sometime after Valentine’s Day. Bombur’s AphroTEAsiacs — Bilbo can’t believe Bombur stole that name from him while he’d been drunk; he demands royalties — had just gone off the shelves in clearance to make room for a new shipment of crowd-pleasing soy-based massage oil candles. Bilbo had been completely bored out of his mind, as it was that time of day when barely anyone’s considering getting a new vibrator. Who buys a vibrator at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, anyway?

But in comes this tall, handsome man with a full beard and dark hair slicked back; he’s sharply dressed, and blushing like his face had been set on fire. And Bilbo takes one look and knows he’d at least like to get his number.

That could turn out a lot of different ways, of course. He knows that. He’s run the entire gamut of relationships, from the good to the bad to the downright ugly. Even without factoring in the whole ‘oh by the way, I have some interesting bedroom habits where I’d either like to tie you up and spank you or to be tied up and spanked’ thing, giving a stranger one’s mobile number is a leap of faith.

Thorin Oakenshield, as it turns out, has been one of the better leaps of faith that Bilbo has taken.

* * *

“Thorin Oakenshield is going to do something reckless,” Gandalf Grey remarks over tea.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his. It’s his favourite from Hulwulzahar, with milk and honey and a bar of rich dark chocolate. Sometimes he considers giving up sex for this; it releases practically the same endorphins. “When is he ever not doing something reckless?” he asks.

Gandalf chuckles. “True, this man did consent to being in a BDSM relationship with you,” he says, but his eyes are twinkling with mirth. Bilbo shakes his head.

“You old rascal,” he declares, setting down his mug. “I’m not that bad on top. I’ve gotten good reviews, I’ll have you know.”

“Could I read them on Yelp?”

“I thought you didn’t know what Yelp was.”

Gandalf makes a tutting noise. “Just because I’m old as the hills doesn’t mean I’m technologically illiterate, Bilbo Baggins,” he reprimands.

“That’s funny, because your old friend Radagast called me the other day asking if I could help him with his computer. I had to explain to him that birdseed doesn’t belong in the optic drive, and I’m not even a tech person.”

Gandalf snorts, and fumbles in the pocket of his grey leather jacket for a pack of cigarettes. “I think you caught him while he was high.”

“I suspected as much,” replies Bilbo drily, and then scowls at Gandalf’s cigarettes. “Could you not do that in the house? I’m trying to quit.”

“Bah, won’t let a old man have his comforts.” Gandalf mock-scowls at him. “You’ve changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not for the better.”

“I think averting death by lung cancer is very much ‘for the better’, thank you,” retorts Bilbo, and takes another sip of tea. “Now tell me, what reckless thing is Thorin Oakenshield planning this time?”

Gandalf leans back as he puts his cigarettes away. “I have sources in Scotland Yard,” he says, “who say that he’s been contacting Detective Inspector Dáin Ironfoot. The two are related, yes, but my contacts believe they are discussing more than just family issues.”

“You have sources everywhere,” scoffs Bilbo. “What exactly _do_ you do, anyway? Every time we talk it’s like your vocation’s changed, and then I’m left with more questions than I started.”

“Oh, Mr Baggins.” Gandalf sets down his mug. “If I told you —”

“You’d have to kill me, yes, I know.” Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Does MI6 have an official ‘disturber of the peace’ department? It seems like a good fit for you.”

“Who says I’m working for MI6?” Gandalf asks, laughing.

“Oh, forget it. You’re being obtuse, as usual.” Bilbo crosses his arms. “What did Thorin and the good Inspector talk about, if they weren’t family issues?”

“I believe they’re investigating the misdeeds of one…” Gandalf clears his throat, clearly still somewhat uncomfortable with broaching the name, “Smaug von Brandt.”

Bilbo sighs. Of course Thorin would pry, would stick his nose even further into this issue. He’s not an unobservant man, not by a long shot. Thorin Oakenshield has a strange tendency to clench his hands and grit his teeth whenever the name Smaug von Brandt is brought up; he has a tendency to lose all sense of rationality when talking about him.

Of course Bilbo knows that reassigning Dwalin to him was an act of concern on Thorin’s part — and he is, of course, grateful for the constant silent presence of Dwalin, who at the current moment is watching crap telly in the living room just one door down from him and Gandalf. But still, there is a definite sense of possessiveness, even though it comes from a place of genuine affection and concern. And Bilbo’s not sure what to make of it.

“I thought Bard was investigating him,” he says.

“He is, though he’s gone off on a bit of a tangent at the moment,” Gandalf says. “You might’ve heard him talking about it at the munch with Galadriel. He thinks that something’s rotten in the state of Dale Manufacturing.”

Bilbo hums. “ _Is_ that a tangent?” he asks.

“Oh, definitely. Archibald Lincoln is hardly the face of trustworthiness. I don’t suppose you’ve met him?”

“No, I haven’t,” says Bilbo. There’s a loud but muffled shout of dismay from the living room. “I think Dwalin just found out the kid’s true paternity on that show he’s watching,” he adds, with a wry grin.

Gandalf chuckles, taking another sip of tea. “Well, I think you should be paying attention to the news more often. Companies like Rivendell Electronics and Dale Manufacturing _have_ been interested in investing in Erebor’s new developments, and it’s only because of Gundabad that they didn’t make any offers prior to the Gundabad-Erebor partnership. The fact that Dale Manufacturing, a company that’s enjoyed a long-standing relationship with Erebor, refused to invest in this one endeavour in deference to the likes of Smaug von Brandt does lead me to believe that —”

“That you also think there’s something going on,” finishes Bilbo with a sigh.

“Yes.”

Bilbo sighs. “What does any of this have to do with Thorin, though?”

“What do you think? The last thing we want is DI Ironfoot on our heels making all the wrong assumptions about our own investigation.”

“How would you know they’re even remotely interested in what you lot are uncovering?”

Gandalf shrugs. “I don’t know,” he states plainly. “I just need to be sure.”

Bilbo stares at him for a long while, and then sighs and puts his head in his hands.

“You want me to get involved in a criminal investigation into Smaug von Brandt,” he states. Gandalf nods. “How do I even begin to list all the possible things that could go wrong with that proposition?”

“Yes, but at the same time, you could see it as justice. Closure. Catharsis. Properly closing that door behind you and moving on. I doubt that Thorin Oakenshield will want to put you in harm’s way if you help him, and it may be that your own...experiences could turn out to be quite invaluable.”

Gandalf’s voice is calming, but Bilbo’s stomach still curls and his skin still crawls at the very idea of revisiting those dark spaces again, of stepping back into the dragon’s lair.

“I still don’t know, Gandalf,” he says quietly. He tries not to think of the last time he and Thorin talked, the last time they had touched. Thorin is taller and stronger than him, but in those moments of anger and guilt he seemed so much smaller, like he was mentally curling in on himself.

Thorin blames himself, when both of them were equally at fault for what transpired.

“I’ll see what he thinks of it.” Bilbo smiles thinly at Gandalf over the rim of his cup, and Gandalf nods in return.

“Good,” he says, patting Bilbo’s hand. “It might do you well; you never know.”

* * *

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea, Bilbo?” Bombur asks him when Bilbo tells him about Gandalf’s suggestion.

“I think it’s a terrible idea, if anyone’s looking for my opinion,” Dwalin chimes in. Bilbo looks over at his bodyguard and sighs.

“Look, I haven’t said anything about actually going out to investigate,” he points out. “I think what Gandalf just wants is another pair of eyes on Thorin while he and DI Ironfoot do their thing —”

“I turn my back on Thorin for _one day_ and he gets himself involved in an investigation into the CEO of Gundabad Enterprises,” Dwalin complains.

“Tea?” asks Bombur. Dwalin blinks at him. “You seem to need it.”

“Ta,” groans the personal assistant, rubbing his temples as Bombur pours him a cup and sends it across the table at him.

They’re in a window booth at Hulwulzahar on a Wednesday night shortly after closing. Dori is closing the till, while Ori is wiping down the other tables and counters. Bilbo has been staring at his mobile, which is sitting on the table next to his mug of hot chocolate. He’s been intermittently staring at his mobile for the entire week, debating whether or not to text Thorin.

There are so many things he has to say. Not only does he need to bring up Gandalf’s idea and see how Thorin reacts, but he also needs to schedule some time for them to discuss their relationship.

Because that’s what it is now, apparently. Now that Thorin wears his collar, now that he regularly stays over at his Lonely Mountain penthouse flat, now that the word ‘partner’ slips so easily off his tongue when referring to Thorin. Not playmate, not hook-up, not scene partner. _Partner_ , simple as that. Significant other. Boyfriend?

Words and labels are so confusing sometimes.

“Bilbo?” Bombur’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Bilbo blinks, pockets his mobile. Not now, then.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“You alright?” Bombur’s ruddy brows furrow. “Want a biscuit?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“I can tell you’re not,” retorts Bombur. “Thorin was in the other day with the same problem. What’s going on with you two?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Something came up during a scene,” he says. “I’m giving us some time to think about what we need to discuss the next time we meet.”

“That’s a very pedantic way of putting it,” remarks Bombur.

“It’s a simple need to renegotiate certain aspects of our relationship.”

He, too, draws inwards during times like these, stews in his thoughts and emotions for a while too long. _A renegotiation_ , he thinks. _That’s what this is going to be. It can’t be a breakup. I don’t want it to be_.

That’s more of a realisation than anything else. Moving on from the dragon’s lair is a lot more doable with someone like Thorin by his side.

* * *

Dís Durin swings by Prim’s on Thursday with a box of chocolate-covered strawberries. “Thorin thought you needed your space, but he also wanted to make sure you had your strawberries,” she explains as she sets the box down in front of him. “I told him to get his head out of his ass, but...you know my brother.”

Bilbo laughs as he opens up the box. He’s not sure what to say; there’s a lump in his throat that won’t go down as he looks at the decadently drizzled treats inside.

“Tell him I said thank you,” Bilbo says when he finally regains his voice, just as Prim comes out with the after-dinner tea service.

“Staying for tea, Dís?” Prim asks.

“I’d hate to impose,” replies Dís. “I just came by on an errand.”

“Well, I think that warrants some tea,” declares Prim.

Dís laughs. “Do we actually need an excuse to have tea, though?” she asks, and Prim grins, gesturing for her to sit in the living room with them.

“Did Drogo slink off to grade final papers?” Bilbo asks as Prim pours them all soothing cups of chamomile.

“Where else would he be?” wonders Prim. “Poor man, grades are due in a week and he’s got far too many students.”

“Oh, but he’s almost there,” Bilbo says as he warms his hands with his cup. “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, isn’t there?”

They chuckle about it. Dís sips pensively at her tea for a moment, before looking over at Bilbo.

“I suppose I should mention that my baby shower is rapidly upon us,” she says, “and to remind you that you’re invited. In fact, I _expect_ to see you there with a suitable gift.” Her eyes twinkle. “How about that remote-controlled vibrator we talked about last time?”

Bilbo’s glad he hadn’t been drinking. He probably would’ve spat out his tea. As it is he quickly puts down his cup, ears turning pink. “I thought baby showers were meant for presents that play some role in raising the _newborn_ ,” he remarks drily.

“I think de-stressing the mother who gave birth to said newborn is a _very_ important role,” retorts Dís.

Prim chuckles, too. “She has a point, you know.”

“Et tu?” complains Bilbo. The two women grin at him, and he sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When Prim goes back to refill the teapot, Dís sets down her teacup and watches him peer into the box of strawberries again.

“My brother’s concerned about you,” she says.

“Did he give you this address?” Bilbo asks. It comes out a lot harsher than he intends, and he grimaces at that.

Dís shakes her head, undeterred. “I actually bumped into Prim at a Tesco’s, and then again at Queen Charlotte’s. She often helps with my checkups. She’s very efficient and all-around wonderful.”

“What a small world,” Bilbo remarks drily.

“I’d drink to that if I hadn’t just finished my tea,” replies Dís.

Bilbo laughs a little. “So Thorin’s concerned about me.”

“Well, not so much concerned as ‘practically living with his mobile in his hand’. He’s been waiting on you to contact him all week, and now it’s Thursday and he’s getting worried. But of course, he’s a big lug who won’t talk to his sister about his feelings, so that’s all just from my observations. I could be wrong.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that you’d be wrong.”

“You never know,” replies Dís. “Sometimes I get him things for Christmas that he doesn’t like.”

Bilbo’s mind flies ahead to those cold winter months, and part of him wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to buy presents for Thorin: presents for his birthday, for their anniversary, for Christmas. He wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to get trapped under the mistletoe with Thorin, whose lips would taste of wassail and whose hands would be warmed by the fire.

But it’s May now, and there are still conversations to be made, boundaries to be renegotiated. Thorin’s waited an entire week for him.

Maybe it’s time.

* * *

His own London townhome is cramped yet lonely. He hasn’t touched the handle to his playroom-slash-guestroom in months.

Bilbo stands now in front of the door and envisions Thorin waiting inside for him.

He’s not perfect, of course. No one is. But he’s willing to learn, and he’s willing to talk, and he’s willing to submit. And the way he submits to Bilbo never fails to take his breath away. Thorin is loud; he’s needy and impatient and every bit the bratty and naughty sub that his king role would entail, but there is beauty in the way he responds so easily and enthusiastically to Bilbo’s touch. There is magic in the languid slope of his back and the firmness of his ass. And there is devotion in his eyes every time he sees Bilbo, every time he sees his Consort.

Bilbo wants to be worthy of that devotion. He tries to be strong. He tries to be brave. He tries to be trustworthy. He treasures the gift of submission that Thorin has given him. But sometimes, just trying to be strong feels more like putting on a mask over his scars and shadows and insecurities, and he always has the fear that Thorin will see them and run.

Sometimes even Dominants have marks. And Thorin takes a look at Bilbo’s and kisses them away and tries to protect him, though it melts Bilbo’s heart that he’s staying at all. Not many people do.

And even though there are fantasies and thoughts that Thorin hides from him, even though there are darker sides to Thorin that he tries (and fails) to hide, Bilbo knows that what they have is something worth fighting for.

He gets out his mobile and texts:

**_Dinner tomorrow?  
BB_ **

**_Thought you’d never ask. -T_ **


	18. A Long-Expected Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of consentplay in this chapter.

For Thorin, the week following the safeworded scene is hell.

He wants to give Bilbo his space and time to cool down and think about things rationally, but at the same time it’s hard to do that when every atom of his body yearns for the man. It’s a form of subdrop, all right, and all that gives him any relief is looking through his and Bilbo’s texts and listening to some of the recordings Bilbo did on his mobile during some of their previous aftercare sessions.

“ _God, what do I say on these things? I don’t know, should I say something from the Consort? No? That’s a shame, I was going to say you were such a good little king for taking it all like a champ. Well, I said it now, didn’t I?_ ” A wry chuckle. “ _God, you’re amazing, Thorin. You know, sometimes even I get a bit dropped sometimes, and I just think about you and how great you look in our scenes together and how receptive you are to what we’re doing — god, I think about your moans and the way you move with me and the way you tremble before you come, and I’m better again, I remember why I’m doing all of this. It’s all for you, my dear. Sometimes knowing that you’re waiting for me on Fridays is all that keeps me going._ ”

Thorin would often lie with his phone by his pillow in his too-empty bed, playing Bilbo’s voice over and over, revelling in the small cracks in his voice and the breathlessness seeping into his words as he gets more and more excited. He’d lie there wrapped in his soft blanket with headphones on and just imagine it’s actually Bilbo talking to him, telling him these things over and over, wrapping him in the blanket and making him pancakes.

He’s also played the friskier recordings too, the ones where Bilbo tells him things to do to himself, murmuring words of encouragement as he does so. When the nights get extremely lonely, Thorin plays those as he strokes himself to climax, wishing he had more than a set of plugs to fill him, yearning for a good, hard, possibly even disciplinary spanking.

His self-inflicted, ‘only contact Bilbo if he contacts you first’ punishment has been too gruelling for his liking. Having Bilbo handle discipline seems easier; Bilbo would not only find appropriate punishments, but he would also hold onto Thorin tightly afterwards and ask him if he’s learnt his lesson. Penitence and penance are easier to swallow when they’re offered by someone else; forgiveness is easier obtained when given by someone else. As it is, Thorin’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for what he’s done (inadvertently or not) to Bilbo.

So he throws himself back into work. Nothing at Erebor has changed so far, which surprises him — his outburst at Smaug surely must’ve spurred the man to some form of action. Every morning, he half-expects to be dragged before the Board of Directors and sacked, or to find an assassin in his office, or to see that social media has blown up about leaked nudes from an ex-partner of his or something. Not that he ever actually _took_ any nudes...

He considers calling his exes to see if any of them had in fact sent information on him to unknown third parties. But he decides not to. It’s rude to pry, and he could always keep an eye on the news himself for any leaked incriminating evidence of his rather disinteresting and very vanilla pre-Bilbo sex life.

Speaking, however, of finding incriminating evidence of people’s sex lives, Dáin has yet to contact him with any more information about the Lancashire case. This general lack of communication from everyone has thus made time drag on, with every other minute marked by him looking desperately at his phone in hopes of seeing a new message from someone, anyone.

But only the time on the clock and his daily reminders of meetings and due dates show.

* * *

On Thursday the silence breaks. He gets a call from his brother Frerin.

“We’re in Vegas!” Frerin says by way of greeting, and Thorin chuckles at that — even though there’s been extended periods of silence between them, his little brother never fails to liven things up a bit whenever they talk.

“That’s wonderful,” he says, and he means it. “Did you take pictures? Dís showed me the penis mug you found in Amsterdam.”

“I _had_ to get it,” says Frerin. “It was too good. I’ve been picking up way too much stuff on tour, though; I might return with more luggage than I set out. Really doesn’t help that Vegas has thought of every conceivable way to take all of your money. Oh, and — when’s the baby due again? Because when we were in Seoul a week ago I got the baby this really cute outfit. It’s a bit flowery, but —”

“I’m sure Dís would love it,” interjects Thorin. “She’s taken to calling the baby Kíli, too.”

“Oh, about time.” Frerin huffs in laughter. “What about you, though? What time is it there?”

“About dinnertime. Isn’t it morning over where you are?”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a flight in half an hour to Boston. From there I’ll be slowly making my way down to New York, and then flying back in time for the baby shower. I hope, at least. It’s been such a long tour. Everyone’s exhausted. If we get out of this without wanting to go solo on each other, I’m going to be so fucking impressed.”

“Well, here’s to hoping you and Eye of the Mountain make it out in one piece.”

“Cheers,” agrees Frerin. “You wouldn’t believe the crowds, though. So many screaming teenage girls. I don’t think you really get a sense of how widely your stuff has spread until you’re confronted by crowds of fans. Some girls in Los Angeles tried to propose to me.”

“I hope you let them down easy,” Thorin says, with a light chuckle. Frerin huffs in laughter as well.

“Oh, I did my best. Though, speaking of proposals — didn’t Dís say you’ve found yourself a partner?”

Thorin feels his face heating up. “I thought I mentioned it to you.”

“I don’t recall anything of the sort, but then my brain’s been a jumble of chords and lyrics for the past couple of days.” Frerin laughs again. “Seriously bro, congratulations. Knew you had it in you.”

“...I feel like I should be offended,” Thorin mutters, rolling his eyes even though Frerin couldn’t see him.

“Can’t your little brother be proud of you without accusation?”

“You sound like I’m not capable of getting a partner.”

“I _know_ you’re not a virgin,” Frerin scoffs. “That girl that you brought around for the Christmas holidays during your first year at uni was hollering at two in the morning the first night. I remember it because I slept next door.”

Thorin feels his blush deepen. “Shut up.”

Frerin doesn’t, in fact, shut up. “So, what’s this one like?” he teases. “Another screamer? Or do they just kinda lie there and make you do all the work?”

Thorin snorts. “The exact opposite, to be truthful,” he says. “He’s...very in charge.”

“ _Dominating_.” Frerin’s grin could be heard in his voice. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

“If you make it to the baby shower, you probably will.”

“Oh, he’s already on Dís’s good side? That’s fast. She had a grudge against the fellow with the dog during your entire relationship with him.”

“She still hates him. And even if Bilbo hadn’t been on her good side long before he met me, he would be by now.” Thorin coughs. “He, uh. He runs a sex toy store.”

“Lucky you.” The grin in Frerin’s voice gets distinctively sleazy. “Now I definitely can’t wait to meet him.”

Thorin debates over whether or not he wants to vent to his brother about the current situation with Bilbo. He’d already done some modicum of it with Dís, after Primula invited him to dinner. That had ended with him giving her the strawberries to bring to Bilbo, and part of him still regrets not simply showing up himself.

“He’s a…” Thorin trails off, struggling for the words. The silence seems to press in on him the longer he wavers, and after a while he gives up the idea of venting to his brother at all. “He’s conscientious,” he says after a moment.

“What, in bed?”

“Definitely.”

Frerin laughs. “Good for him. And good luck with him, too. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Yeah.” Thorin’s not quite sure where the lightheartedness of their conversation has gone. He hangs up with a small frown, but then then his mood is dragged right back up with the notification of a message from Bilbo:

**_Dinner tomorrow?  
BB_ **

Grinning, he fumbles out a reply:

**_Thought you’d never ask. -T_ **

* * *

Friday evening finds Thorin and Bilbo back at Bofur’s seafood restaurant, though this time they carefully avoid anything with shellfish in it. Bilbo orders the salmon. Thorin’s stomach feels far too knotted with nerves for anything bigger than an appetizer.

He sits, somewhat awkwardly, across the table from Bilbo, who is in his usual frumpy cardigan and neatly-pressed shirt, the electric candle on the table casting a warm glow to those features that Thorin has missed so dearly. Bilbo seems a bit awkward too, determinedly not looking at Thorin even after they’ve ordered. He reads the menu like a newspaper, and Thorin watches the candle glow dance and flicker instead.

When the food arrives, the silence between them thickens. Thorin picks at his ravioli appetizer and Bilbo cuts his salmon into tiny bite-sized chunks. Thorin watches the way Bilbo stabs and cuts at his food, and his own knuckles turn white on the handles of his silverware.

“Open up,” Bilbo says.

It’s the first thing he’s said that hasn’t had anything to do with where they’re going and what the weather’s like, all topics carefully engineered to skirt around the actual topic sitting thick like a wall in the silence between them. But Bilbo is slowly drilling a hole into this wall as he extends the fork with a piece of salmon speared on the tines, and Thorin’s mouth opens even before his brain realises what he’s doing.

Bilbo feeds him bites of salmon off his fork, and Thorin accepts them without much question, aching for the interaction between them to not be so silent or stilted as they seem to have been this past week. People send them odd stares from other tables, and he blushes a little at being fed in public, but he reckons it’s somehow simultaneously Bilbo’s way of punishing and caring for him in one go. And there’s nothing quite like the rapid beating of his heart at the soft look in Bilbo’s eyes. God, he’s missed that.

The bite-size pieces are gone when Bilbo finally speaks up again. “Good job,” he says quietly. Thorin smiles a little, returning his gaze to his appetizer.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure what he’s saying it for, just that it needs to be said somehow.

“No,” says Bilbo. “ _I’m_ sorry. I had fault in this, too. I said that communication was important, and I closed up on you.”

“I didn’t tell you things, either,” Thorin points out. “I didn’t let you know about the… the fantasies.”

Bilbo nods, and then begins cutting up the salmon again. “You should eat more,” he says after a moment. “You look like hell.”

“Is that why you were feeding me?”

“You’re not the type to just order an appetizer and call it a meal,” Bilbo replies.

Thorin chuckles. Bilbo’s right. Now that the knot has lessened somewhat in his stomach, he feels a bit more hungry after all.

“Could you…” he asks, nodding towards the fork.

“Gladly.” Bilbo smiles, and raises the fork again. “Open wide.”

Under the table their hands find one another again, and Thorin revels in the fluttering of his heart the moment their hands touch. He savours the more comfortable silence that lasts as Bilbo feeds him a couple more bites of fish, and then speaks up again:

“I missed you.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Bilbo’s chuckle is dry. “I missed you, too.”

“And I’m still sorry for what happened.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo sets down the fork, reaches across the table, and takes his hand. “What do you want? That’s something I should’ve asked a lot more, and I’m sorry I didn’t. So I’m asking you now: what do you want out of this?”

The answer slips out before he even realises it. “I want this to work,” Thorin says. “We might need a new contract, new limits, whatever. All I know is that I want _us_ to work. Together.”

Bilbo exhales and nods, and briefly he cleans his glasses on his cardigan before smiling at Thorin again, more broad and warm than before.

“Good,” he says. “I want this to work, too.”

And Thorin feels as if a heavy weight has fallen from his shoulders, as if the knots in his stomach are loosening up. Bilbo covers Thorin’s hands with his own, before bringing his knuckles to his lips and pressing soft kisses to the skin. Thorin’s breath grows a bit more ragged at that; the world narrows to just him and Bilbo, and he finds himself basking in that.

“Did you bring a contract?” The words evade him; pulling even these five out seem to take a great deal of effort. Most of his mind is too busy focusing on the way his and Bilbo’s fingers slot together, on the whisper-soft pressure of Bilbo’s lips against his skin. He’s missed that.

“I’m… well.” Bilbo laughs, shakes his head, shrugs. “I didn’t know what to expect from this dinner, to be honest, even though I hoped for the best.”

Thorin nods. “Then maybe next time?” he asks.

“Definitely.” Bilbo nods. “And just because we don’t have a contract with us doesn’t mean we can’t talk about what we want to renegotiate.” His eyes are warm and gentle as he says that, patting Thorin’s hands and setting them down at last.

Thorin looks down at his ravioli and stabs one with his fork. “You know what I want,” he says quietly.

“You’re looking to delve into consentplay,” Bilbo states.

Thorin nods as he guiltily chews at his ravioli.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “It’s not _that_ unusual, actually,” he says.

Thorin looks up.

“A lot of people get into BDSM _because_ they have these kinds of fantasies.” Bilbo chuckles. “A great deal of us have wanted to be held down and forced to come, or to do the holding down and forcing. Some of us have imagined being ravished in our sleep, as I pointed out during our first negotiation.” He pauses. “And of course, there are some of us who fantasise about being kidnapped and violated. The important bit is where the line between fantasy and reality is drawn.”

Thorin nods as he continues onto his second piece of ravioli. Bilbo watches him for a moment longer, before continuing.

“Whatever the scenario might be — it might not even be any of those that I just brought up — as long as there are safewords that we honour everything should be fine.” He reaches out, squeezes Thorin’s hand briefly. “I told you that during our first negotiation, didn’t I?”

“But I thought you were trying to dissuade me from consentplay,” says Thorin quietly. “It made sense, given the context of...you know.”

“I’m a survivor.” Bilbo’s voice is quiet yet firm. “And what we have is _different_ from what I’ve experienced in the past. What we might have in the future is _going to be_ different from what I’ve experienced in the past. Our scene space is a safe, sane, consensual, _controlled_ environment in which all of these fantasies are acted out. You’re not going to break me by struggling when I touch you, if we’ve agreed for it to happen beforehand.”

He pauses. Thorin swallows, feeling his throat go dry under the intensity of Bilbo’s gaze.

“That’s why I was mad at you last week,” Bilbo says after a moment. “Not because you have consentplay fantasies, but because you didn’t think to tell me, and instead tried to instigate a struggle in a scene where we didn’t script for any resistance.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Thorin.

Bilbo huffs in laughter. “I forgive you,” he replies. “Just make sure to tell me about these things next time.”

Thorin nods. Bilbo then reaches into his satchel and takes out a small notebook, which he passes across the table to Thorin.

“If you would accept one more order from your Consort before we renegotiate —”

“I’m fine with having you stay the Dominant —” Thorin interjects, but Bilbo stops him with a finger.

“We can talk about that some other time. I just have this one request to make of you.” He taps the notebook. “I would like you to start journaling about our encounters.”

Thorin looks down at the notebook, and then back up to Bilbo. “Why?” he asks.

“Because it will help us communicate better,” says Bilbo bluntly. Thorin raises an eyebrow. “It’s actually also a good aftercare procedure. Vent out all of your thoughts about our scenes and our relationships into this book. I’ll be doing the same in another notebook, too, and once a month we’ll trade them and read each other’s entries. Fair?”

Thorin flips through the notebook and nods. “Fair enough,” he says, and Bilbo’s grin grows a little wider at that.

And before Thorin can even process it, the man is leaning across the table and kissing him, one hand gripping at his tie and pulling him closer, the roughness of his mouth on Thorin telling him all he needs to know.

 _It’s been too long, god I needed this, can’t even imagine how I lasted a week without you_.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for them to leave the restaurant, though Thorin has to admit that, by the time they’re crossing the threshold of his flat and he has Bilbo pressed against the wall with his lips trailing along the other man’s neck, his stomach is protesting that they left without properly eating anything.

They barely stop for a bite on their way to the bedroom; Thorin’s barely scarfed down the banana he yanks from the counter before Bilbo tosses the peel into the rubbish bin and shoves him up against the wall of his bedroom, yanking Thorin’s suit jacket off his shoulders and untucking his shirt from his trousers. Thorin gasps as Bilbo’s fingers touch his abdomen; he reaches out and pulls the man closer, breathing ragged against the shell of his ear.

“I need you,” he grits out as he flips them around, tugging off his tie before he grabs the sides of Bilbo’s face to kiss him again. Bilbo’s mouth opens readily to him, and his fingers deftly undo the buttons of Thorin’s shirt as Thorin’s tongue brushes against his.

“I’ve missed this,” Bilbo murmurs, looking up at him through his lashes when they break for air, and the sight sends heat pooling in Thorin’s stomach. It’s with great pleasure that he undoes the buttons of Bilbo’s cardigan, and shoves them off the man’s shoulders.

He’s never really had the privilege of undressing Bilbo before; his Consort is always in the robe during their scenes and Bilbo used to slap his hands away if he tried to help him. But this time he doesn’t, and Thorin takes advantage of that to linger in the moment, to slowly undo the buttons of Bilbo’s shirt and press kisses to all the exposed skin that follows it. Bilbo’s sighs are soft and whispery around him.

Eventually they fall back to the bed, clad in only boxers, and Bilbo is straddling Thorin, tawny curls falling in his face as he peppers kisses through Thorin’s beard. Thorin’s hips buck towards his, and Bilbo moans a little into the kisses with each thrust.

Thorin’s fingers dig into the waistband of Bilbo’s boxers, and pull downwards.

This is another kind of flying, this euphoria that surrounds Thorin in the way their bodies fit and react with one another, in the way Bilbo’s nails dig crescents into his hips and his own hands yank at Bilbo’s hair. There’s something savage and wonderful in how they show they’ve missed one another, all teeth and nails, scratches and bites, moans of delight. Bilbo is gentle with his roughness, and Thorin returns it likewise. He takes their cocks in his hands as Bilbo’s hips buck against his, and is rewarded with the beautiful arc of Bilbo’s body as he throws his head back and cries Thorin’s name as he comes.

He himself follows soon after.

* * *

Sometimes Thorin remembers smoking in bed after sex with his exes, letting the nicotine fill up a craving that the sex itself somehow couldn’t satisfy.

This food craving is a little different, a little more borne out of the fact that they’d barely eaten anything at Bofur’s, as well as the fact that Bilbo had gotten into the habit of fixing him food after their scenes. It’s practically classical conditioning at this point.

Still, the sight of Bilbo flipping pancakes at eleven o’clock at night while dressed in one of Thorin’s old LSE t-shirts makes his heart skip a beat, makes him think that yes, this is what he’d like to see on a more regular basis. Perhaps — and he’s both excited and terrified of this thought — even permanently.

Bilbo yawns as he slides a plate of pancakes across the counter at Thorin and then pours him a glass of milk. Thorin himself is wrapped in his bedsheets; he grins as Bilbo scrubs at his eyes and puts his glasses back on. Bilbo’s hair is tousled from all the times Thorin had yanked it earlier; the scent of sex clings to him as he wraps himself around Thorin and leans his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Thorin asks, nodding at the plate. “You made enough for both of us.”

Bilbo hums. Thorin slices up some of his pancake, pours some syrup on it, and smiles.

“Open wide,” he instructs, and Bilbo gobbles up the pancakes he feeds him, and Thorin feels that same twinge of excitement in him from the restaurant as Bilbo’s tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of syrup from the tines.

“You tire me out,” Bilbo mutters as Thorin takes a sip of his milk. “But in a good way,” he adds, chuckling wryly, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s cheek. “Insatiable little pet.”

Thorin kisses him then, chasing the sweetness of the syrup lingering on Bilbo’s lips. “Don’t say you’re not up for round two,” he says when they part. Bilbo raises an eyebrow at him.

“ _Already_?” he asks, clearly impressed.

Thorin shakes his head. “I haven’t seen you in a week,” he protests. “The king demands to make up all of that lost time.”

Bilbo laughs, takes off his glasses again. He then kisses Thorin, biting playfully at his lower lip. “Then the Consort will defer to the king’s good judgement,” he replies with a wink, and easily tugs Thorin off the stool and back to bed.


	19. Crime and Funishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further discussion of consentplay, including scene discussions, are in the second part of the chapter. Please read at your own discretion, especially if it might squick or trigger you.
> 
> Additional warnings for mentions of fire and poison.

“Oh, cheer up, Thorin, it’s just going to be a couple hours of fun and games,” Dís says on the day of the baby shower. Thorin grimaces.

“Any news as to when Frerin’s going to get here?” he asks.

“He texted me this morning saying his flight’s been delayed, so I don’t know if he’ll make it after all,” says Dís with a shrug.

“Shame,” says Thorin, as Víli puts the cake with the stork topper on the kitchen table along with all of the other refreshments.

He’s not particularly thrilled about spending the good part of this lovely June afternoon with Dís’s army of mothers in her little Barnsbury townhome. They are all wonderful people, he’s sure, but not in large doses and all talking at the same time about pregnancies and childbirth. To make things worse, the entire place is decked in pastels with cheery banners saying “Congrats Baby” on it, as well as more storks than you could shake a rattle at. Thorin’s not entirely sure why this affair is even necessary; just because Kate Middleton did it doesn’t mean everyone else needs to follow her stead.

The army of mothers come flocking in at three PM on the dot. They’re followed by Bilbo and Primula, though once Primula lets slip that she’s expecting, too, the mothers quickly seem to absorb her into their ranks with heaps and heaps of advice and encouragement. It’s wonderfully positive and positively terrifying at the same time.

The hostess for this affair waves at him as she comes in with her son. Thorin’s not quite sure what her name is. She’s a striking redhead, and he remembers seeing her around Erebor as she _is_ married to his financial director, but her name escapes him all the same. The boy, on the other hand, proudly declares that his name is Gimli. He has a mop of red hair, a smattering of freckles, and two missing teeth.

“I sometimes see him with the preschool kids across the street,” says Fíli as he and Thorin linger in the kitchen watching Gimli try to pilfer cookies from the refreshment table without being caught by his mother. “He’s always with Legolas Greenwood.”

“Legolas Greenwood?” echoes Thorin.

“ _He’s_ a bit older than me,” says Fíli, nodding sagely. “He’s annoying.”

Thorin chuckles. He has a suspicion he knows who Legolas Greenwood is related to, with a name like that. “Good,” he says.

Bilbo comes by with a brown paper bag in his hands. “They’re playing guess the baby item in the bag. I think this one contains a binky. What do you think?” he asks, pushing the bag into Thorin’s hands. Thorin feels around the bag and shrugs.

“Feels like one,” he says. “Or maybe it’s a baby bottle cap.”

“No, it seems to have a handle,” says Bilbo, and then he smiles at Fíli. “Are you the big brother-to-be?”

“I’m Fíli!” declares Fíli. Thorin laughs, ruffles Fíli’s hair.

“Fíli, this is Bilbo,” he says by way of introduction, and Fíli very determinedly shakes Bilbo’s hand before taking the bag from Thorin.

“That’s my binky in there,” he says after a moment, and his expression seems rather downcast. Bilbo pats his shoulder.

“It must be hard, having to become the big brother,” he says.

“Do you have brothers?” asks Fíli.

“No, but I have plenty of cousins. Some of them might as well have been my siblings,” says Bilbo as he kneels down to the four-year-old’s eye level. “But it’ll be alright. You’ll get some new responsibilities — a lot of them, actually — but don’t you think it’ll be fun to have a playmate living with you all the time?”

“Maybe,” hedges Fíli. Bilbo pats him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry too much about being a big brother. It’ll be better than what your mum has to go through. You just need to remember to play with the baby. Your mum has to feed and clean them.”

Fíli’s nose wrinkles, but he’s grinning, and Thorin can’t help but feel a bit proud for Bilbo as Fíli races off with the paper bag in his hands.

“He’s going to be fine,” Bilbo says after a moment.

“Yeah,” agrees Thorin. “I remember having the same existential crisis when my parents were expecting my siblings.”

Bilbo laughs. “One was enough for my mother. I’m glad I missed _that_ existential crisis.”

The next game, played in the living room, is one that involves baby pictures of all of the guests, though Thorin groans when he sees which picture of him Dís had sent to her friend.

“Which one is you?” asks Bilbo, and Thorin feels his ears redden. Bilbo laughs. “Oh, so it’s an embarrassing one.”

“They’re _all_ embarrassing to some degree,” Thorin protests.

“Not mine,” declares Bilbo. “I took great care to send your sister my most flattering shot.”

Thorin snorts. “You’re on the board, too?”

“Oh definitely. And so’s Prim. Is Fíli there, too?”

“Not that I can see. My sister prefers to embarrass her friends, not her children.” Thorin purses his lips, and then notices the shot of the little brunet boy with a sword and a big grin. “Is that one you?” he asks, pointing.

Bilbo chuckles. “You got me,” he says. Thorin shakes his head, grinning.

“You’re right. It _is_ a very flattering picture.”

“Prim’s is the one with the hat to its left, right there.” Bilbo points, and then taps his chin. “Is yours the crying one covered in mushed peas?”

Thorin groans. “Yes. Of course my sister picked that one.”

“Nice to see you weren’t born dignified,” replies Bilbo with a wink.

“Since when have I ever been dignified around you?” wonders Thorin. Bilbo chuckles, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’ll _dignify_ that one with an answer. We’re in polite company, after all,” he says, causing Dís to roll her eyes at them from the armchair, where she is now opening her presents. She oohs and ahhs at all the onesies and blankets, and squeals in delight at the baby’s bath basket from the hostess.

When she gets to Bilbo’s present, which is wrapped in discreet brown paper because apparently the only other gift wrap that Bag End has is patterned with little penises and vaginas, she laughs when she peels up the corner of the paper, and then sets it aside.

“I knew you’d pull through for me, Bilbo,” she declares with a wink.

“What’d he get you?” one of the mums ask.

Dís smirks at her. “Something delightful,” she replies.

“Sounds like something naughty,” the hostess remarks.

“Oh, I trust Bilbo with finding me naughty things,” says Dís with a shrug. “He knows I’ve had my eye on this for a while. And, before you ask, Víli is completely fine with not having to shop for my toys.”

“Of course he is,” scoffs another mum. “My Bert once put on a condom backwards. I have no idea how he managed to do such a thing, but husbands are always full of surprises, aren’t they? Sometimes I really do wish I had Sir Dragonheart as a lover. _He’d_ know what to do.”

There’s a collective sigh from a great deal of the mothers gathered in the room. Thorin looks over at Bilbo to see him worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He reaches over and squeezes Bilbo’s hand. Bilbo squeezes back, taking a deep sigh as he does so.

“As long as they’re just fantasising,” Bilbo murmurs. Primula looks over from the sofa, one eyebrow raised at Bilbo. Bilbo nods, as if to say he’s fine.

Dís, too, also looks slightly discomfited as she coughs and turns back to unwrapping her presents. Eventually the pile dwindles down to just a card. Dís frowns at it; the envelope is blank.

She opens it, her brows furrowing deeply as she reads the card’s contents.

“Is there something wrong?” Thorin asks.

Dís doesn’t look at him. “Interesting card,” she says, almost dismissively, as she tucks it in with her other presents. “Maybe it’s time for cake, what do you say?” she asks in a louder voice as the hostess helps her to her feet.

Thorin’s brows furrow. But who is he to argue against cake, especially with clamouring party guests practically shoving him into the kitchen in their eagerness?

Though, after the cake, which is admittedly quite delicious, Thorin steps back and watches Bilbo play tag with Gimli and Fíli in the hallway. Bilbo manages to catch Fíli with some effort and swing him up into his arms with a shout of “you’re It!”, and Fíli responds to him in laughter. It warms Thorin’s heart to see how easily the two are getting along with one another.

Now he really knows that they have a fighting chance of making this work. And that thrills him.

* * *

Dís would probably kill him if he ever admitted aloud that he was looking forward to the end of the baby shower so that he could leave with Bilbo, but it’s the truth.

There’s a new contract on the kitchen counter moments after they’ve returned, and Bilbo is filling out some of the unchanged information. Their medical history remains intact, as well as their primary roles. However, now there’s more space for resistance and switching, which makes Thorin’s heart beat a little faster.

They fill out the list of kinks as well. Now that Thorin’s been exposed to more of the things on the list, he readily agrees to more: more acts and experiences, more implements that can be used on him for impact play, more positions he’d be willing to be tied up in.

And it’s astounding, how far he’s come already. His edges and boundaries have moved in ways he hadn’t anticipated before. It’s exciting; it’s thrilling to know that Bilbo knows the ways in which he’d like to fly, and is willing to be there with him even down the darker parts of his wants and desires.

“What sorts of consentplay fantasies have you had?” Bilbo asks him. Thorin looks up from where he’d been reading the contract, and chuckles sheepishly.

“I, uh…” he says. Bilbo raises an eyebrow. A little glint of the Consort is showing in his eyes.

“Come on, Thorin,” he drawls, undoing exactly one button on Thorin’s shirt. “Don’t make me force it out of you. All your dirty little fantasies are safe with me.”

That’s the Consort, all right. And who is he to deny that voice?

Thorin swallows. “I...I want you to make me come even after you’ve fucked me raw, even though I’m whimpering that I couldn’t possibly come again, not so soon.” His ears are bright red as he continues to mumble. “I want you to ravish me in my sleep, to tie me up and wake me with your cock hard inside me.”

“A bit louder, pet,” says his Consort.

“I want you to make me your captive and use me for your own pleasure,” Thorin says, louder.

“How perfectly naughty of you.” His Consort grins, strokes Thorin’s cheek. “Anything else?”

“Uhm…” Thorin squirms a little. His Consort continues to watch him patiently, that devouring, lustful stare quelled by the patience in his stillness. Thorin shivers; he’s missed that, too.

“Tell me,” his Consort commands, his hands slipping down Thorin’s chest to trace the outline of the bulge in his crotch, and Thorin tilts his head back and moans.

“I...I want…” He squirms a bit, as his Consort’s fingers undo the fly of his trousers and slip inside, palming him through his boxers. “I dreamed of you... of you forcing me. Subduing me. Tying me up. Cutting and ripping away my clothes until I was completely — ah!” He cries out, as his Consort’s wrists flick as they stroke his cock through his boxers. His own hands entangle themselves in his Consort’s hair. “I was vulnerable,” he pants once the hand slows its stimulation a little, and his rationality returns, however briefly.

“And then what did I do to you?” asks his Consort, nipping at his earlobe. Thorin muffles a moan into Bilbo’s shoulders.

“You fucked my mouth and my ass, shoved me down onto the bed and wouldn’t let me move until you were done.”

A small hum of delight. “How badly do you want this, my pet?” asks his Consort, grinning. Thorin’s entire face is bright red.

“Very,” he says.

“Good boy.” And the Consort subsides, and it’s Bilbo who’s jotting down notes on the contract with his tongue poking out between his teeth. He squeezes Thorin’s hand. Thorin exhales deeply.

“I’ve also dreamt of doing those things to you,” he adds, much more quietly. Bilbo hums.

“That can also be arranged,” he says.

Thorin blushes at that. “We don’t have to —” he begins, but Bilbo chuckles.

“Oh no, don’t get into that. I said you’re not going to break me, and I’m sure of it.”

“But I don’t want to trigger you or —”

“ _What_ do you want to do to me?” interrupts Bilbo, tilting his head up just so that his neck is exposed. Thorin longs to bury his head there and press kisses to it, almost like an apology for what he’s going to say next.

“Kidnap you,” he says. “Say, perhaps, that this is how the king and Consort met.”

“The tables really must have turned between their first meeting and their wedding, then,” remarks Bilbo with a sly grin. Thorin chuckles.

“The king kidnaps the Consort,” he explains, “and forces him onto a long journey back to his kingdom to be married. But during the course of the journey, through all the danger they face, they grow to love one another and the Consort quickly turns the tables and gains the king’s obedience.”

Bilbo chuckles at that. “I like explanations,” he remarks, squeezing Thorin’s hand. “I can definitely work with that, though we might have to do a bit of preparation so that I can reliably trust you with my life in the scene.” He winks, and Thorin shuffles and grins sheepishly.

“You’re fine with the scene?” he asks, voice hesitant.

“Oh _god_ yes,” says Bilbo. “Believe it or not, I’ve had similar fantasies about you.”

A strangled moan escapes Thorin’s lips at that. “Why didn’t you _say_ so?” he whispers.

“We hadn’t been acquainted then,” replies Bilbo with another wink, tugging Thorin a little closer to peck his lips before turning back to the new contract.

They finish up said contract and sign it, after which Bilbo draws Thorin close and kisses him again: deeply, properly, hands entangling themselves in Thorin’s hair as he does so.

“I think you deserve a little reward, Your Majesty,” he declares when they break apart.

“Are we doing a scene?” asks Thorin.

“Would you like a spanking?” counters Bilbo.

Whatever blood left fuelling his rational thought flies southward at an alarming rate. “Yes, please,” says Thorin, and Bilbo chuckles, grinding his hips against Thorin’s in reply.

* * *

Thorin loves wearing the collar. He hasn’t had the chance to wear it regularly enough during scenes, but it feels excellent resting against his Adam’s apple. It makes him feel loved and owned.

He kneels at his Consort’s feet, who’s not in the robe, but there’s no mistaking the confidence and the authority that exudes from him in waves.

“Haven’t we discussed, Your Majesty, your temper around the delegations from the Greenwood?” his Consort reprimands, and Thorin inclines his head.

“They’re all a bunch of pompous fools,” he grinds out.

“Pompous fools or not, they’re also formidable enemies if we get on their bad side. Cooperation between us and the Greenwood is paramount to peace in the area. Your behaviour today deserves punishment.”

“Yes, my Beloved,” Thorin replies obediently.

“Now come here,” instructs his Consort.

Thorin finds himself bent over his Consort’s lap. His cock, already hard and leaking pre-come, rubs across his Consort’s trousers. Thorin moans at the friction and at the sensation of his Consort’s hands moving along the curve of his ass.

“Naughty, naughty boy,” sighs his Consort. “I suppose a spanking will teach you better manners.”

Thorin moans at the first spike of pain that jolts through him, followed by a firm squeeze and a lighter smack. It repeats again on the other buttock, followed by a squeeze to his hands.

He squeezes back tighter, hearing a huff of laughter before his Consort spanks him again, eliciting from him another long, low mewl.

With each strike he feels the sensations reverberate through his entire body, feels his cock rub a little more against his Consort’s trousers as he wriggles and bucks into the man’s hand. With another smack, Thorin throws his head back with a whine of delight, causing his Consort to grab his hair and tug a little.

The rhythm of the spanking quickly establishes itself, and Thorin loses himself into it, moving his body with Bilbo’s as the endorphins cause a lovely buzz in his head. He’s flying high into subspace, his world narrowing to not much more than just his Consort and himself and their dance of pain and pleasure.

He almost comes the instant his Consort’s fingers brush against his cock, but it’s with an extreme amount of self-control — and some desperate thoughts of filing forms and doing taxes — that he manages to pull himself from the edge, even briefly, to prevent this from turning into an actual punishment scene. His Consort’s fingers are deft; they know every ridge and hollow of his cock, every spot that makes him see stars. Even when they’re just ghosting along his skin Thorin can’t help but buck into his Consort’s hands, only to earn himself a chastising smack before the delicious torture begins again.

His Consort alternates stroking his cock with spanking his ass, and with each change Thorin inches back towards the edge. Each time he gets too close, he’s brought away by a smack just in time, though eventually he finds himself longing for release.

“Please,” he begs, the next time his Consort’s thumb brush briefly against the leaking tip of his cock. “Please, my beloved… let me…”

“What do you wish for, my king? Have you learnt your lesson?” whispers his Consort in his ear. Thorin throws his head back, gasping, as his Consort’s fingers lightly ghost down his shaft and then solidly cup and squeeze his balls.

“Yes,” he whimpers. His Consort’s right fingers trace soothing designs into his shoulders.

“Good boy,” replies his Consort. He’s moving his left hand up back along Thorin’s cock when the ringing of the doorbell distracts them both.

Thorin groans as Bilbo’s hand stills; he scrambles to his feet and grabs his own black robe, tying it tight around him. Bilbo follows him to the door of the flat, opening it to reveal Dís, Víli, and Fíli with several suitcases and boxes that smell vaguely of burning material.

“Thorin, can we stay with you for a while?” Dís asks, raising an eyebrow at Thorin’s state of undress. “Our house caught on fire earlier this evening.”

* * *

“Fire?”

“For the fifteenth time, _yes_ ,” says Dís, rolling her eyes.

Thorin looks up from the mug of hot chocolate he’s preparing for Fíli, who looks much more shocked than he looks singed. Next to the boy, Víli is lounging on the couch with a glass of brandy.

“It was arson,” he declares.

“The Met hasn’t ruled out an accident yet,” Dís points out sourly.

“But _I_ say it was arson,” replies Víli as Thorin hands Fíli the hot chocolate. “None of us were downstairs, and we never leave flames unattended. Someone else set the fire, I’d swear on it.”

“We’re finishing up the report at Scotland Yard tomorrow,” Dís adds, as Fíli sips pensively at his hot chocolate and then yawns widely, setting down his mug and curling up on the sofa. Thorin doesn’t even protest the fact that his nephew forgot to remove his shoes.

“How much of the house burnt down?” asks Thorin as Bilbo passes Dís a mug of tea. His partner had been by his side the entire time, quietly fixing tea for the adults. Thorin’s not sure what to make of the fact that he and Bilbo could now move about the kitchen together without running into each other more times than necessary, or of the fact that Bilbo seems to have memorised the locations of everything in the kitchen.

“The fire department got to us pretty quick,” says Dís, “so I guess we’re lucky.” She pauses, fidgeting with her suitcase handle for a second, before looking up again. “But I agree with Víli. This was arson. Someone’s got it out for us.”

“Us?” echoes Thorin, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Do you mean —”

“Frerin is in the hospital,” says Dís. Thorin’s hands go white on the handle of his mug.

“The hospital? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Maybe you should check your mobile. They said they’d called you and you weren’t picking up.”

Thorin blushes. It must have been during the scene. Next to him Bilbo stifles a chuckle. Dís shakes her head at them.

“Is he alright, though?” asks Thorin once his blush dies down a little.

“He was in critical condition for a while, but they called while we were coming over here. He’s doing much better now.”

Thorin exhales. “And what happened, exactly?” he asks.

Dís grimaces. “The doctors say he’d been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” exclaims Bilbo, horrified.

“Yeah,” says Dís. “Grim, isn’t it?”

Thorin’s knuckles are white on the counter. Both of his siblings in one night. It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

And what Dís says next only confirms it.

His sister removes from her coat pocket the card from the baby shower and hands it to him. “I thought this had been a joke, since it was a quote from _The Dragon’s Obsession_ , but now I’m starting to wonder if the person who wrote the card is trying to threaten one of us.”

Bilbo stiffens. “And what does the quote say?” he asks. “Do you know who the card’s from?”

“No,” admits Dís. “But maybe you or Thorin might have some ideas.”

Thorin looks down at the blank envelope. Bilbo grips Thorin’s hand as he opens the card. Inside, in an elaborate script, there reads:

_You are mine: mind, body, and soul. No thief can claim you for their own._

Thorin hears a small gasp. Next to him, Bilbo collapses in a dead swoon.


	20. An Unexpected Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of references to Bilbo's backstory (tw: past abusive relationship), as well as what's happened to Thorin's siblings (tw: fire, poison). Read at your own discretion.

Several things happen at once. Thorin is there immediately just before Bilbo hits the ground. Dís and Víli are at his side in an instant. Together, they carry Bilbo out of the kitchen and into Thorin’s bedroom, laying him on his side in the bed.

“Bend his knee and get his head resting on his hand,” Dís instructs, and Thorin and Víli do so as gently as possible. Thorin watches the slow rise and fall of Bilbo’s chest as Dís starts monitoring the man’s pulse with a finger to his neck.

Bilbo’s eyes flutter open a couple moments later. He blinks; Dís removes her finger. “How are you feeling?” Víli asks, as Bilbo looks confusedly at them.

“Did I really faint?” he asks.

Thorin nods. “You weren’t out for long,” he adds, as if that would make things better. “A couple of minutes, nothing too serious.”

“Hm.” Bilbo rubs his eyes, humming as Thorin takes his hands and squeezes. “You say you don’t remember who sent the card?” he asks, looking at Dís.

She shakes her head. Thorin’s hand squeezes a little tighter.

Bilbo sighs. “I have my suspicions,” he says quietly.

“Who?” asks Dís. Behind her, Víli slips out to go tend to Fíli back in the living room. Thorin takes a seat on the bed, still holding Bilbo’s hand, his own head spinning with wild thoughts and fears.

It looks like Smaug’s made a move. He’s hitting right where it hurts, and not in a good way. The way Bilbo slumps as he shakes his head at Dís and insists he doesn’t really want to talk about it right now makes something clench in Thorin’s chest, makes that familiar old anger burn deep inside him at what Smaug has done to the people he cares for most.

“It’s late,” Thorin says after a long moment of silence as he watches Bilbo’s other hand fidget with his trousers and Dís wringing her hands by the bedside. “The guest room should have everything you might need tonight; we can get more things tomorrow.”

“It’ll only be for a little while. I wouldn’t want to get underfoot, especially after they finish the repairs or I’m carted off to the hospital to pop the baby out, whichever comes first.” Dís’s tone is light, but her expression is detached, weary. Thorin lets go of Bilbo briefly to embrace his sister.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says, trying to inject a little hope into her. She nods, squeezing his shoulder briefly before leaving the room as well. Thorin then resumes his seat next to Bilbo, who entwines their fingers with a sigh.

“Your robe’s loosened,” he remarks wryly.

“Do you want it loosened further?” asks Thorin, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Bilbo sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t think that scene will be coming back anytime soon,” he says. “I’m so far away from the Consort right now.”

“I understand,” says Thorin. “You should undress.” A pause. “For bed, I mean.”

Bilbo slowly sits up again, hands going to unbutton his shirt. Thorin reaches out, stopping his hand and tucking a stray curl of tawny hair behind one ear.

“Let me,” he says quietly, and Bilbo nods. Thorin begins to unbutton his partner’s shirt, his hands slow and reverent as more and more of Bilbo is bared to him. Bilbo shrugs off the shirt once the last button is done, and Thorin lets his hands ghost across his partner’s bare shoulders until Bilbo reaches out and firmly presses Thorin’s hands to his skin.

“Kiss me,” he commands, though there isn’t much of the Consort’s spirit in it; Bilbo seems so wearied by all that’s just happened that it tugs at Thorin’s heart in a painful way. But he complies, pressing the chastest of kisses to Bilbo’s lips, letting the other man decide how much he wants. And Bilbo responds to that, his hands gripping at Thorin’s robe to hold him close, his mouth opening just slightly into the kiss. Thorin sighs into the kiss, before pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.

“What are we apologising for, exactly?” Bilbo asks. Thorin wonders which mask the man has donned now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The card,” Thorin begins, but Bilbo darts forward and kisses away the rest of his answer.

“No. That’s my fault. If I knew that Smaug would —”

“We can’t prove that it’s him,” Thorin points out.

“No, we can’t, but who _else_ could it be?”

Thorin shrugs, even though he knows Bilbo’s right. “You saw all the guests at the shower. A lot of them ate up that ridiculous book series.”

“But to go around sending threatening cards and then possibly committing arson and attempted murder via poison? Most of those mothers might be vicious gossips, but they’re not _killers_.”

“Whoever sent the card knew you would be at the baby shower,” Thorin points out. “Chances are high that it’s one of the other guests. There’s no connection between the shower and Smaug other than us, and neither of us sent the card.” He pauses. “Also there’s no way we can actually link the sender of the card to the people or person who committed arson and poisoned my brother, not with the very little evidence we have.”

Bilbo growls, leaning heavily against Thorin as he undoes his belt and trousers. “This is so typical of him, though,” he mutters into Thorin’s shoulder as Thorin puts an arm around him. His voice is so dry and brittle. “He likes mind games. Press their buttons, make them _scream_.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says simply, cupping his partner’s face. Bilbo’s eyes are downcast.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s all my fault that your sister’s house burnt down and your brother’s been poisoned. I brought this on you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Thorin insists, helping Bilbo remove his trousers before wrapping his comforter around his partner’s shoulders. How dare Smaug do this to his family? To Bilbo? His own hands clench, white-knuckled, in his lap. “And things might be looking bad now, but they will get better soon, I promise you.”

“I was doing such a good job of not thinking about it, too,” Bilbo adds bitterly, tugging the comforter tighter around his shoulders before leaning up and kissing Thorin gently. After a moment, he smiles again, though there isn’t much warmth to it. “Thank you.”

Thorin nods, not sure what to say to that. Bilbo slowly clambers to his feet, the comforter trailing around him like a fluffy white cloak.

“We should get some sleep,” he says after a moment. “Lots of things to do tomorrow.”

Thorin nods, and follows Bilbo into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

* * *

The next morning, Thorin goes to visit his brother Frerin while Dís and her family stop off at Scotland Yard to finish their statements.

The hospital room is silent, save for the beeping of various monitoring machines. Frerin lies in bed, looking pale but pleased to see Thorin as he takes a seat at his brother’s bedside.

“Long time no see,” Frerin remarks. Thorin reaches out, covers Frerin’s hand with his own.

“What happened?” he asks.

Frerin rolls his eyes. “Poison happened, that’s what. They had to land as quickly as possible and send in the paramedics to wheel me off the plane.”

“What did you eat?” Thorin’s brows furrow.

“Nothing. It was in my drink.” Frerin squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, groaning. “Probably some dodgy booze I had in New York; the band and I weren’t that picky about what we were drinking on our last night, after all.”

Thorin grimaces. “And it’s just you? No one else in the band got sick?”

“No.”

It would’ve felt better to know it was just an accident, that there were other people in this hospital with similar problems due to sheer tourist stupidity. But no, Frerin’s condition had been premeditated. And that sends chills down Thorin’s spine.

“They’ve been pumping me full of ethanol. Do you think I’ll get drunk?” Frerin’s grin is lazy. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly at Thorin. “You didn’t bring your new boy toy. Shame; I’d have liked to meet him.”

“He’s at work,” replies Thorin. “Though he says he might visit during lunch with Dís, Víli, and Fíli.”

“That’s not too far from now,” remarks Frerin with a grin. “Dís said she was staying with you for the time being when she called me this morning. Did something else happen?”

“Yeah. Suspected arson at her place.”

“Ooh.” Frerin makes a face, though it takes some effort. “Bad luck there. And just when she’d gotten such nice things for her baby shower!”

“Not much was damaged,” replies Thorin. “Most of the fire was downstairs. Minor repairs, and then they should be ready to move back in.”

“Don’t want Fíli to find out how much of a screamer your partner is?” Frerin’s smirk would be a lot more lewd if he wasn’t lying around in a hospital bed with several IV drips in his arms. Thorin shakes his head.

“This is hardly the place to talk about that.”

“Hospitals are so sterile. Help me dirty things up a bit.” Frerin groans as he raises the bed a little so he can see Thorin more properly. “What’s your boy toy like, besides dominating and conscientious?”

“He’s not my boy toy,” protests Thorin. “I’d say it swings more the other way around.”

“Really?” Frerin cackles. “And here I thought you, Mr Managing Director, would protest to being on the bottom. You learn something new every day.”

Thorin rolls his eyes. “Surprisingly, Mr Managing Director likes to separate business from the bedroom.”

“Down to your personality?” wonders Frerin.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a personality change.” Thorin shrugs. “I just like being taken care of once in a while.”

The door to Frerin’s door opens again, and Dís enters with a giant cheery bouquet, followed by her husband and son. Bilbo trails in just a little after them, looking a little uncertain as he steps into the room.

“They should be coming in with your food soon,” Dís announces as she sets down the flowers. “Looked hideous from what I saw off the trolley.”

“Can’t wait to try it for yourself in a couple of weeks?” asks Frerin with a wink.

“I’m not going to be in this part of the hospital,” replies Dís. “Heck, I’ll probably not even be _at_ this hospital.”

“Picky picky.” Frerin winks, and then notices Bilbo. “Hey,” he greets, waving. “You must be my brother’s partner.”

Thorin rises to his feet and walks over to Bilbo. “Bilbo, my brother Frerin,” he introduces, gesturing to the bed. “Frerin, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Shame that our first meeting is in a hospital,” adds Frerin as Bilbo steps up to his bedside. “I’m not usually this reckless, I swear.”

Dís snorts. Frerin rolls his eyes at her.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were here because you’d been poisoned,” he says.

“Oh _come on_!” Frerin exclaims. “Thorin, I thought we’d agreed that the official story was that I got into a fight with a bear.”

“A fight with a bear in New York, without half of your body in a cast?” echoes Thorin. “Not likely, little brother.”

Frerin pouts at him. Thorin chuckles, shaking his head. Dís takes the seat Thorin had vacated. Next to her, Fíli climbs, with some great difficulty, onto the hospital bed and sits cross-legged at the foot with a rather despondent look on his face. They all remain in an awkward silence for a moment longer before Víli speaks up.

“I should be running back to work,” he says, as a nurse enters with Frerin’s lunch. “I’ve a lunch meeting in ten minutes; if I’m lucky, the Tube will get me back in five.”

“Good luck,” says Thorin as Dís hugs her husband goodbye. Víli rushes off, as the nurse sets down the lunch tray, uncovers it, and leaves. Frerin stares down at his lunch with a grimace. Fíli wrinkles his nose as well; it’s quite remarkable how alike the two are in their disapproval.

“Mummy says you got sick,” says Fíli.

Frerin chuckles. “Yes, but I’m getting better now. Just remember to keep an eye on your drink, alright, kiddo? Don’t want to end up here like me.”

“That’s not fun,” says Fíli solemnly.

“No,” agrees Frerin, patting his nephew’s back.

“Do you remember who the bartender was? Maybe they’ll know something,” Dís says.

“Do you remember which of your neighbours were aware of the fire?” wonders Frerin drily. “Maybe they’ll know something.”

Dís sighs. “Point,” she concedes. “Have the police come by to take any statements from you, yet?”

“No,” replies Frerin, half-heartedly stabbing at the salad on his tray. “For all they know, it could’ve been an accident.”

“The fact that you out of everyone in Eye of the Mountain got meths poisoning from one night out in New York doesn’t sound like an accident to me,” Thorin points out as he takes Bilbo’s hands. “ _Report it_.”

* * *

Dáin meets him for lunch again, an eyebrow raised in greeting as Thorin takes a seat across from him. “I heard Dís and Frerin both made statements at the office this week,” he says.

“Yeah, a lot’s happened,” Thorin says as he takes a bite of his panini. “But what about you? Do you have anything for me?”

Dáin hums. “The autopsy says there was a healing scar on the shoulder, in the shape of a ‘v’. The photographs also show the same, here —” he takes out his mobile and pulls up the picture. Thorin takes it and sighs when he sees that the shape looks nothing like Bilbo’s scar.

“I see,” he says after a moment.

“Was that what you’re looking for, coz?” asks Dáin.

“Close, but not really,” replies Thorin.

Dáin makes a vaguely disappointed noise. “Sorry that didn’t work out, then,” he replies.

“It’s no problem,” Thorin says, waving a hand. “Send it to me anyway, I might have someone take a look at it.”

“ _Your_ someone?” asks Dáin. “You know, the one you want to protect?”

“I don’t know,” replies Thorin. “If he wants to, maybe. I was actually thinking of contacting Mr Bracegirdle, but if my someone wants to contribute, I’m not going to stop him.”

Dáin nods. “I see,” he says, and then drums his fingers against the table for a moment before speaking up again. “Do you think there’s any chance the attacks on your siblings might be tied to the fact that you’re doing this?”

Thorin stares at him. “Why do you say that?” he asks in a carefully neutral tone.

“It’s just a hunch,” says Dáin with a shrug. “Dee said that she was the victim of arson, Frerin said he was the victim of attempted murder. You’re trying to solve a cold case, and you’ve got a bit of a vendetta against Smaug von Brandt. It’s entirely possible —”

“I’d suspected as much,” replies Thorin. “In any case, I’m going to be increasing security for my sister and her family as well as… my someone.”

“Good idea,” agrees Dáin. “I wish I could help there, but I can’t spare anyone recently.”

“Dwalin knows people,” replies Thorin.

“Sounds shady.”

“It actually isn’t.” Thorin chuckles.

“What about you, then?” asks Dáin, looking over his shoulder to where Balin Fundinson is sitting, studiously pretending to read a newspaper. “Getting out the family barrister? Finding a new bodyguard? Balin’s good at what he does, of course, and he’s a man of many hats, but he’s also not quite where he used to be. I don’t think he’ll have enough strength to keep you from falling off the side of a cliff, for example.”

“Then I’ll take great care to avoid cliffs,” replies Thorin drily.

“You’re not getting more personal security?” asks Dáin.

Thorin shakes his head. “I can take care of myself,” he insists. “Also, I’m going to Lancashire.”

Dáin raises an eyebrow. “Scene of the crime?” he asks. Thorin nods. “What makes you think you’ll find anything we didn’t already get the first time around?”

“What was the interior of the farmhouse like?” asks Thorin.

“Dark and creepy. There are photographs of the contents, though I imagine some of the... devices have been discarded between then and now.”

“I’d like to see those,” replies Thorin.

“You’re lucky you’re my favourite cousin,” retorts Dáin. “Leave me out of any possible assassination attempts, please?”

“Don’t you want this cold case solved?” wonders Thorin. “I just want to know if the case can be more concretely connected to Smaug.”

“Yeah, but there’s no need to force the evidence.” Dáin shrugs, rising to his feet. Thorin rises with him. “Good luck, though. I doubt you’ll find anything new, given that it’s been years and crimes do get cleaned up by then, but if you do, give me a ring.”

“Will do,” agrees Thorin, and the two men shake hands.

* * *

“Gandalf told me something a while ago,” says Bilbo on Friday as he’s lining up the contents of his bag of supplies on a table in the bedroom. “He said you were investigating Smaug von Brandt for something.”

“How does he know that?” Thorin asks. He’s seated on the bed, wrapped in his own robe and nothing much else. “I thought he just supervised dungeons or something.”

“You hear a lot when your only job is to watch,” Bilbo says, turning around to look at Thorin. “And to be honest, I don’t think what I know about the man even touches close to who he actually is.”

“MI6?” wonders Thorin.

“Oh, that reminds me! We still need to do that Bond marathon sometime.”

Thorin chuckles. Bilbo runs his hands along their favourite crop, the one with the heart at the top. Thorin feels a shiver run down his spine at the sight of it; he can’t wait to feel it against him. But Bilbo sets it down, and goes to inspect some of his ropes instead.

“How much does he know?” Thorin asks after a moment.

“You’ve been having conversations with Detective Inspector Ironfoot from Scotland Yard,” replies Bilbo.

“He _is_ my cousin,” Thorin points out.

“It’s about a cold case in Lancashire,” continues Bilbo, experimentally wrapping some of the ropes around his wrist. “Gandalf wouldn’t give me the details, but I imagine it has something to do with the Von Brandt estate just outside Lancaster.”

Thorin purses his lips. “Are you going to punish me for this?” he asks.

Bilbo looks up at him. “Why would I do something like that?” he demands.

“I’m prying into your past again. Indirectly, but all the same —”

“Gandalf has suggested that I help you,” replies Bilbo.

Thorin exhales. “Do you want to?” he asks after a moment.

“Gandalf says it might be good closure,” Bilbo says.

“That’s not an answer.”

Bilbo heaves a deep sigh. After a moment, he puts down the rope and sits down on the bed next to Thorin.

“I never went up there with him,” he says, “if you’re worried about that. I only heard about it; he used to use the house up there as either an enticement or a threat, depending on how he felt at the time. But we never actually went. So I don’t know if I could be of much help.”

“But you _do_ want to help?” asks Thorin, a little more hesitant. His hand finds Bilbo’s, squeezes reassuringly. “I mean, I don’t want to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with —”

Bilbo squeezes back. “If there’s anything I can do to ensure that Smaug von Brandt goes to prison, name it,” he says, his voice shaky, yet tinged with so much courage that Thorin feels an incredible swelling in his chest at he looks at his partner, his Consort. To have gone through so much pain and yet be willing to tackle those shadows all over again — there truly is no one braver, and Thorin wishes he was eloquent enough to tell Bilbo that through his words.

But touch will have to do. He reaches out, cupping Bilbo’s face, and Bilbo reaches up to rest his own hand atop Thorin’s, and they pause for a while, breathing in each other’s air, content to drown in each other’s gaze.

“Do you remember what we’ve negotiated for tonight?” Bilbo asks, breaking the warm silence between them. Thorin nods.

“You’re an adventurer tonight,” he says, “and you saw me on my balcony earlier in the evening, and now you’ve crept up the vines and into my window to tie me to my bed and ravish me.”

“How much resistance are you going to put up?” asks Bilbo, with all the air of a teacher quizzing his pupil. Thorin’s face flushes even at the thought of that — there’s another scene in there somewhere.

“Mild. I’ll make a big show of trying to ward you off because my virtue is so precious, but secretly I actually really do want this to happen, and eventually I’ll give up and let you have your way with me.”

“And the safewords, in case we really do want to stop?”

“Smaug, and the traffic lights.”

“Good boy.” Bilbo stands up again, patting Thorin’s cheek. “Get dressed for bed; I’ll be with you shortly.”

Thorin grins. “No goodnight kiss?” he jokes, and Bilbo laughs at that, leaning up to grant his request.

“There you go, satisfied?” he asks when they break apart. He lightly swats at Thorin’s bum as he pushes him in the direction of the bed. “ _Go_.”

And Thorin can’t help but obey, a thrill running through him at what they’ve got in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene will be coming up soon, yes! It's taking me a while to get back into this headspace, so forgive me for dithering around without delivering on any smut. I'll try to make their first consentplay scene worth your while. As you can see, we're starting out easy with something maudlin (aka [this adventurer au by iraya](http://naughtydonuts.tumblr.com/post/114906988497/iraya-please-slamdunk-me-into-the-trash-where-i) that I can't get out of my head) so hopefully the consentplay won't be horribly off-putting to anyone. 
> 
> It feels good to be writing this again after my small school-induced hiatus!


	21. Stupid Sexy Adventurers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consentplay scene in the first part (and arguably the only part I'm actually pleased with). I tried to make it clear that Thorin is pretending to resist, and the situation is more of a consensual dubious consent than a consensual non-consent scene, but all the same, proceed at your own discretion!  
> It's inspired by iraya's [Adventurer AU](http://naughtydonuts.tumblr.com/post/114906988497/iraya-please-slamdunk-me-into-the-trash-where-i), fyi.

They’ve planned out everything, even arranging for the recently-discharged Frerin to take Fíli in tonight so that the poor kid won’t be subject to suspicious noises down the hall. Dís and Víli have been given earplugs, though Dís did say something about spending the entire night with noise-cancelling headphones instead. Play is to be strictly limited to Thorin’s bedroom, and if they make enough noise for Dís and Víli to knock at their door, Bilbo is allowed to use the gag.

All of these precautions and safeguards run through Thorin’s mind now as he lies in bed, dressed in nothing but an old-fashioned nightshirt. The cotton is soft against his skin, but the ridiculous bishop sleeves and open collar make him feel a little foolish. Nonetheless, he closes his eyes and imagines that his room is in a stone castle covered in curiously scalable vines, and that he is a young, innocent prince who is still inexperienced in the ways of love and marriage.

There are footsteps in the room. Thorin keeps his eyes shut, trying to temper his excitement and arousal into something more innocent and innocuous. For a while he’d feared that Bilbo had changed his mind, that he was having second thoughts. But those doubts are chased away the first moment he feels leather-gloved fingers against his skin, and he very nearly breaks character so he could moan and arch into the touch.

He’s an innocent prince. Innocent princes figure that stuff out a little later.

He turns in bed, still pretending to be asleep and completely unaware of the intruder in his room, and feels in response the whisper-soft brush of Bilbo’s fingertips along the curve of his neck. Goosebumps rise on his arm at the feeling, but it takes all of his acting skills not to react.

He can feel the tickle of breath against his skin now, sending jolts of arousal coursing through him at the mere thought of Bilbo being so close. He shifts again in his sleep, and is rewarded with the press of more gloved fingers against exposed skin.

Finally, he opens his eyes, and his dashing Consort is there — but not quite. There’s that same confidence, that same swagger and smirk, but placed against a collared shirt, a green waistcoat, and brown trousers, and somehow a lot more rough-cut and lewd than the Consort’s.

Thorin is so unbelievably turned on by it, but still he sits up in bed, tugging his covers to his chest with a wide-eyed, terrified expression. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my chambers?” he demands, causing his Consort — or the Adventurer, in this case — to shush him with a finger to his lips.

“Wouldn’t want to wake the guards,” the Adventurer drawls, and his voice talks of exotic lands still unseen and experiences still unfelt. A shiver runs down Thorin’s spine.

“Guards!” he cries out. “ _Guards_!” He would’ve shouted a third time had the Adventurer not swooped down and shut him up with a kiss, and all of Thorin’s cries are muffled by those wonderful lips. Thorin thrashes a little, but melts into the kiss nonetheless.

They break apart for air. “You mouthy little thing,” chides the Adventurer. “How long are you willing to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?” Thorin asks.

“The pretense that you don’t actually want this,” replies the Adventurer, breath tickling against the shell of his ear. Thorin moans, in spite of himself.

“What’s this?” he asks after a moment, voice hesitant.

“To be touched. To be owned. To be _taken_.” The Adventurer smirks, eyes glinting in the darkened room as his fingers toy with the buttons of Thorin’s shirt collar. Thorin swats his hand away.

“I could never!” he gasps, and tries so hard not to collapse with laughter at how squeakishly indignant he sounds. “I couldn’t possibly — this isn’t something — I’m betrothed — oh!” All of his protestations are lost in another kiss, and he tries to push the Adventurer away, but to little effect.

“I saw you this afternoon on your balcony, my prince.” The Adventurer pulls away to look him up and down, eyes darkened with lust. He advances again, and Thorin watches him warily with his comforter clutched to his chest. “You were so beautiful with the sunlight in your hair. So irresistible. I wanted to claim you for my  own.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t,” Thorin murmurs demurely, blushing as he shrinks back from the Adventurer’s touch.

“Oh yes you could,” retorts the Adventurer as he tugs the comforter out of Thorin’s hands. Before he even knows it, his wrists are bound together over his head and attached to the headboard, and he’s propped up on pillows and straining against the ropes. God, this turns him on, this wild helplessness even beyond that of their usual bondage scenes. The Adventurer is a Dom of a different stripe than the Consort, so much more aggressive in his movements and his tone, and just the sight of him looking at Thorin as if he’d like to swallow him whole is making Thorin’s cock harden in anticipation.

“Please,” he begs, though he’s not sure whether that’s the prince begging for the Adventurer to stop, or Thorin begging Bilbo _not_ to stop.

“You’re just wearing a nightshirt? How delightful,” murmurs the Adventurer, trailing a sly hand under Thorin’s nightshirt.

Thorin twitches, ostensibly to get the Adventurer’s hand away, but he loses track of himself the moment those gloved fingers touch his skin again. He moans. The Adventurer smirks.

“Give in already, my prince,” he coaxes, one hand briefly brushing the tip of Thorin’s cock. Thorin gasps. “Doesn’t it feel good, to be touched like this?”

“No, no,” protests Thorin, but the Adventurer moves his hand again and he moans loudly, cheeks flaring in embarrassment and guilt at doing so.

The Adventurer hums. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to help you feel everything you’ve told yourself not to feel?”

“I…” Thorin trails off, his breath coming in gasps as the hands continue to stroke at his cock. It feels wonderfully forbidden, opening up desires within him that he had long repressed. He can do nothing but writhe in his bonds, torn between breaking free and stopping everything and lying back to let the Adventurer do this to him.

The Adventurer squeezes his hands twice, a flicker of Bilbo’s concern in his eyes. Thorin squeezes back at that, and the barest of smiles flickers across the Adventurer’s face before it settles into a rough-hewn smirk. He captures Thorin’s lips again, and though Thorin tries to bite his lips it doesn’t come out as much harder than a teasing nip, a sly gesture of encouragement for Bilbo.

And Bilbo gets the message, pulling back with a much more dangerous gleam in the Adventurer’s eyes. “What have we here?” he asks, his voice roughened with desire. “A little naughty, teasing prince.”

“ _Please_ ,” whines Thorin, struggling at the silken rope. Black leather-clad hands trace his jaw and force him to tilt his head up.

“Struggle all you want, princeling; there’s nothing you can do now to stop me from using you for my own pleasure.” The Adventurer begins to undo the fastenings on his trousers. “Maybe if you behave better, I’ll be gentler.”

Thorin pulls at his bonds a little more at that. “Please…” he begs. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Never thought I’d see a prince beg me for anything,” muses the Adventurer as he rolls down his trousers and pants, takes out his cock, and clambers onto the bed. “It really does turn me on.”

And this roughness turns Thorin on, too; he’s not sure how he himself could possibly get any harder, but the Adventurer’s cock pressed insistently against his lips seems to do the trick. His hand is squeezed again; he squeezes back, and then takes the Adventurer into his mouth.

It’s messy and rough, of course, since he’s supposed to be helpless and inexperienced, but it’s also working, too, based on the way the Adventurer seizes his hair and pulls, low grunts of pleasure escaping his lips as he thrusts into Thorin’s mouth. Tears involuntarily spring into Thorin’s eyes at the strain; he blinks those tears away, but Bilbo notices and pauses, pulls out of his mouth.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Are we alright?”

“Yellow-green,” says Thorin.

“Is that a colour?” Bilbo asks with a wry chuckle.

“It is now,” retorts Thorin. “Just… go a bit easier on the prince, won’t you? He’s never done this before.”

Bilbo nods. “Duly noted,” he says with a little mock-salute, before drawing back and slowly pulling his black leather gloves off. Thorin watches him, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Good job, little prince,” says the Adventurer, his voice still husky but losing a slight edge of that roughness from before. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Be gentle with me,” Thorin murmurs, blinking away a couple stray tears and only half-heartedly tugging at his ropes.

“You’ve earned it, haven’t you?” The Adventurer’s look is softer as he cups Thorin’s cheeks. “Good boys deserve rewards.”

He kisses Thorin again, and this time Thorin kisses back, all pretences of resistance gone as he melts into the Adventurer’s touch. It’s gentler now, but with an underlying smugness, an underlying sense of triumph. In their struggle, the Adventurer has come out on top as planned, and now Thorin is submitting, bending the prince’s will to this dashing stranger.

“Spread your legs for me,” the Adventurer instructs, and Thorin obeys, gasping as he feels fingers teasing at the hem of his nightshirt, stroking surely along his thighs. He must look downright dirty, with his hands tied above him and his nightshirt bunched at his hips, soft whines escaping his lips as the Adventurer touches him. The look in the other man’s eyes is strange and unfathomable, and Thorin wonders if it’s paining Bilbo to play his role.

“Bilbo,” he breathes. Bilbo pauses, looks at him. “Are we doing all right?”

“Breaking character again?” Bilbo asks with a wry smile. Thorin chuckles.

“I’m sorry, it must completely kill the mood.”

“On the contrary,” replies Bilbo with a wink.

Thorin huffs, amused. “Do you want to continue?” he asks. “I don’t want to force you to keep going if you, if you…”

“If I…?” Bilbo reaches up and strokes his cheek, chuckling. “I’ve barely just started to take care of you.”

And he delves right back into his role, shoving Thorin’s nightshirt up to expose his chest to the night air, sucking gently at Thorin’s nipples before pressing kisses through his chest hair, down his abdomen, into his trail — and god, it feels so wrong and yet so right for that mouth to claim his cock, and Thorin strains against the ropes as he arches his hips into the Adventurer’s mouth.

The Adventurer’s fingers dig crescents into Thorin’s hips to hold him down as he pulls away again. “So wanton,” he remarks. “No wonder you keep it all hidden away, you shameless tease.”

“Please,” repeats Thorin for what feels like the umpteenth time, but this time it feels more like he and the prince are in agreement — _please, please,_ please _don’t stop_.

The Adventurer obliges, then, tongue licking a stripe down Thorin’s shaft and back up again before circling his slit, and Thorin throws his head back and keens at the sensation, at the delicious feeling of the Adventurer’s mouth engulfing his cock. It’s wrong, it’s forbidden — his own sister and her husband could always be woken up and come investigating — but that only makes his heart beat faster, makes his blood pound harder through him as if in tandem with the quickening pace of the Adventurer’s mouth against his cock. The prince won’t last long, he knows, as this is his first time, and Thorin is all too glad to fall with his imagination over the edge, his hips stuttering upwards as he comes into the Adventurer’s mouth.

“Wow,” he breathes, as if it’s _his_ first time, too, and the Adventurer wipes a bit of Thorin’s come from the corners of his mouth before kissing him again, squeezing his hands reassuringly. Thorin squeezes back, savouring the taste of himself on the Adventurer’s lips.

“You taste amazing, my naughty prince,” murmurs the Adventurer, as Thorin tilts his head to give him better access to his neck. “And your neck is so soft, so perfect. I want to mark you up and make the world know that you’re mine and mine alone.”

Thorin hums at that, a hum that turns into a small gasp as he feels the Adventurer bite at his neck. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but it would leave a mark for a little while, and warmth pools in his abdomen at the very thought. How could he get aroused again this soon? There must be magic in this man’s biting kisses.

“Could you untie me, sir?” he breathes. “My arms are sore.”

“Do you promise to behave?” asks the Adventurer. Thorin nods, and the Adventurer reaches up and begins to undo his bonds. Within moments, Thorin is free, and he rubs at his wrists gingerly as he sits up to face the Adventurer.

For a moment they stare at one another, and then Thorin leans in and kisses the Adventurer, his newly freed hands moving down to pull the man’s trousers off properly. The Adventurer quickly retrieves some things from his pockets before he helps Thorin get his trousers and pants off, and then pushes Thorin back down against the pillows again.

“I’m going to take you, my prince,” he says, his voice a low growl in Thorin’s ear, “and when you can’t sit properly the next morning, you’ll think of me filling you up and making you mine.”

Thorin moans at the promise, his legs spreading a little further and his head falling back as the Adventurer marks him with bites and bruising kisses. One of the man’s hands move to hold Thorin down in place as the other, slick and gloved, presses at Thorin’s hole. He tries to relax, welcoming the Adventurer’s fingers into him, his own fingers grasping at the man’s curly hair to pull him closer.

He gives a surprised yelp, as the prince would have done, at the first brush of the Adventurer’s fingers against his prostate. He’s rewarded with a chuckle and another, more persistent rub; that sends stars bursting in his vision and the warmth of arousal coursing through his body. The Adventurer loosens him up, slipping another finger into him and scissoring, stretching, until Thorin can’t even remember his own name for the amount of times the other man has rubbed up against his prostate. He’s delirious with want; his throaty moans are muffled by the Adventurer’s kisses; his hands fist handfuls of the other man’s clothes. The fingers leave him, but his mewls of disappointment are drowned in kisses until he can’t protest anymore.

The Adventurer kisses him roughly as he rolls on a condom and pushes inside, and Thorin kisses back with the same roughness and want, not even sure if he knows what role he’s playing anymore as his partner fills him. He clings onto the Adventurer as the man starts to move, hips rolling in a slow rhythm that drives Thorin wild with the need for more. His own hips buck upwards in a more erratic fashion, but eventually they work out a common rhythm between them and Thorin’s head falls back hard against the pillows as he gasps out Bilbo’s name.

The Adventurer responds by picking up the pace; Thorin moves eagerly with him then, his own body so responsive to the slightest change in their common rhythm. His hands grow slick with sweat from grasping at his lover’s clothes, and the Adventurer’s breath grows more ragged the closer he gets to climax. Thorin’s almost certain that he can feel it, the mounting tension in his partner’s body as they edge towards climax together.

Bilbo comes before him, mouth open in a soft cry of pleasure. He kisses Thorin then, his hands stroking Thorin’s cock as he pulls out of him as slowly as he dares.

“Come on,” Bilbo coaxes — or is it the Adventurer? Everything’s so muddled — as he nips at Thorin’s earlobe and strokes him a little faster, a little harder. “Come for me.”

And Thorin does, again, more messily than before, Bilbo’s name muffled by his own hand as he tries not to make too much noise. Bilbo kisses him as a reward then, pulling away and rolling back into a sitting position.

“God, I’m sweaty,” he says with a wry chuckle.

Thorin pulls the nightshirt over his head and wipes away the mess on his abdomen with it, watching Bilbo dispose of the condom and the gloves and remove his shirt and waistcoat. Thorin chucks the nightshirt in the general direction of the hamper, where the rest of his clothes had disappeared to, and Bilbo rolls his eyes at him as he clambers back into bed and wraps his arms around Thorin.

“How was it?” Bilbo asks, peppering soft kisses around Thorin’s face.

“I shouldn’t be turned on by the idea of you touching me as I sleep, yet here we are,” replies Thorin. Bilbo laughs at that, nuzzling at his nose.

“Do you think we could run a bath without your sister and her husband protesting?” he asks.

“I think they figured out that we meant it when we gave them the earplugs,” says Thorin.

“Are we going to be treated to a taste of our own medicine in the near future?” wonders Bilbo as he gets out of bed then, extending a hand with a smile.

Thorin takes it, wondering why there are butterflies in his stomach at even such a simple gesture. They just had sex, and his body decides to get weak-kneed at Bilbo holding his hand instead. Typical.

“If they do decide on revenge, you probably won’t be there to hear it,” he says, and follows Bilbo into the bathroom.

* * *

Thorin tells Bilbo of his plans to travel to Lancashire for a couple of days while they’re in the bath. The train departs at noon tomorrow; he’s already got a hotel booked in Lancaster. Bilbo, clearly suspecting that it has something to do with the investigation, insists on coming along with him.

Dís is, of course, delighted that they’ll be leaving the flat in her hands for a couple of days. The noise-cancelling headphones must have been quite effective, as she claims she and the baby slept like logs. Víli is slightly more disgruntled, but does also seem pleased to have the run of the flat.

“They’re going to have sex on the kitchen counter or something while I’m gone, I can almost sense it,” Thorin says with a grimace as he and Bilbo sit next to one another in their compartment on the train from Euston to Lancaster. Most of Bilbo’s commitments for that weekend have been rescheduled at the last minute, and now he is curled up against Thorin, his head burrowed in the crook of Thorin’s neck.

“Don’t think about it,” he suggests, his hand resting on the inside of Thorin’s thigh. Thorin smiles a little at that, though Bilbo’s hand seems content to just rest there, inches away from the bulge in Thorin’s trousers without the inclination to touch it.

It’s so infuriating and hot.

“How are we feeling about the scene yesterday?” Bilbo wonders, though his eyes are transfixed on the green English countryside passing outside the train. Thorin hums.

“It got very gentle halfway through,” he remarks.

“You yourself said to go easy on the prince,” Bilbo points out.

“I never said it was a _bad_ thing. Maybe the scenario just didn’t feel… well.” Thorin coughs a little, looking warily at someone walking past and hoping they won’t barge into the compartment. They don’t, and he relaxes. “Maybe we should be clearer next time on the roughness,” he says.

“You want to specify how brutal it’s going to be?”

“Precisely.” Thorin looks down at Bilbo again, smiling as he brushes some stray curls out of his partner’s face. “When you started shoving your dick in my face, I think the… well, the prince was probably going to be scarred for life if his first sexual encounter included choking on the Adventurer’s dick. It would’ve slipped very quickly into… well. Into something a lot more brutal than what we agreed to.”

Bilbo turns his head up and presses a soft kiss to Thorin’s bearded jaw. “I can see that,” he agrees. “We wanted to keep it on the happier side of bodice-ripper,” he adds with a small giggle.

“So it worked out, in the end,” agrees Thorin. “I’m, well. I’m glad we started with the ‘happier side of bodice-ripper’, to be honest.”

“It’s like anything else in kink: most people start out easy,” replies Bilbo.

“So eventually we’re going to work up to a Spanish Inquisition torture scene?”

Bilbo snorts. “Would you like me to use the comfy chair, or the soft pillows?”

Thorin laughs at that. “I won’t give in to your tickle-torture,” he declares.

Bilbo grins, but his grin softens as he looks out at the exceedingly green landscape before him. “Reminds me of home,” he says, nodding to the window.

“Home?” echoes Thorin, turning to watch the rolling farmlands out the window. “I thought you lived in London all your life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Bilbo, chuckling. “My family’s largely based in Oxfordshire. Prim and I moved out at the first opportunity.”

“But not before you did your time at Oxford, I suppose?” asks Thorin with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” agrees Bilbo. “It’s a nice place, where I come from. It’s in the Cotswolds, actually. Lovely hills, a little river… friendly folks. Lancashire’s not too dissimilar, I hear.”

“I have distant family members in Lancashire,” admits Thorin, looking back down at Bilbo. “No one close enough to visit, but they do exist, and they do sometimes show up at Christmas.”

“Where do you usually spend that?” wonders Bilbo.

“Already thinking that far ahead?”

Bilbo huffs. “No, I’m just curious.”

“Home,” answers Thorin. “I usually spend Christmas at home. With Dís and Frerin, of course, but sometimes, once in a while, someone else on the family tree will hold a bigger event, and we’ll all be obliged to go.” He pauses. “Dunno where it is this year.”

“Sounds like you’re not very invested in it,” remarks Bilbo.

“It’s not nearly often enough for me to actually complain about it.”

“And we all know how much you like complaining.” Bilbo elbows him playfully, before pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I can tell you right now, though, that this past Wednesday I got an invitation to the annual family reunion in August. Guess how much I look forward to it.”

“Ecstatic?” Thorin asks, albeit a bit drily. Bilbo laughs.

“Overjoyed,” he agrees, with the same amount of sarcasm. “Nothing quite like playing polite while preventing your Aunt Lobelia from stuffing her pockets full of the hotel’s silverware.”

“How rude,” Thorin remarks.

“You should come with me,” says Bilbo. “We’re allowed to take guests, and there is no way I’m going to head back to Oxfordshire with just Prim and Drogo for company. They’re good people, but they don’t deserve to be hounded around the clock by me as I try to avoid the rest of my relatives.”

“You could decline the invitation,” Thorin points out.

“And run the risk of being disinherited? No thank you.” Bilbo chuckles. “Come with me, won’t you?”

Thorin runs his hand through Bilbo’s hair and smiles, feeling his heart swell with some emotion that he doesn’t dare to name. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh, good,” says Bilbo, and yawns as he curls in even tighter to Thorin’s side.

Both of them eventually drift off with their arms around one another. Soon, though, the train is pulling up at Lancaster Station. Thorin is jolted by the stop and the announcement, and he nudges Bilbo awake.

Together with their bags in tow, they disembark to catch a cab for the hotel.

* * *

The hotel is only a short cab ride away from the city of Lancaster. It’s a stylish, airy spa hotel, with a comfortably furnished reception lounge sporting a magnificent staircase. Bilbo stands guard by the bags as Thorin heads to the desk to check them in. Families and other couples mill around them on their own holidays and visits; an entire crowd of businesspeople wander through on their way to one of the numerous meeting rooms that this hotel was supposed to have.

“A luxury studio room for you and Mr Baggins?” echoes the receptionist when she checks his booking.

“Yes,” says Thorin, drumming his fingers on the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a twin room, would you?”

“Are you looking for a transfer?” The receptionist sounds slightly incredulous. “The sofa in your suite should roll out to become a bed.”

“No, no! I have some… associates who might be arriving later,” replies Thorin. During the cab ride out to the hotel, while Bilbo had dozed off again, Thorin had called Balin and Dwalin and confirmed that they would be coming up on the evening train.

She hums. “When are they expected to be here?”

“About nine,” replies Thorin.

She hums again. “We do happen to have a twin room that just opened up because of an early departure,” says the receptionist, pursing her lips as she scrolls on her computer. “If you would like to reserve it for them —”

“Please do, thank you,” says Thorin. “How long can we book it for?”

“Until Wednesday.”

“Perfect.” Thorin nods. They finish checking him and Bilbo in, and he’s handed his key cards.

They’re heading up the stairs towards the new wing of the hotel when they see him. A tall man clad in black is watching them by his seat near the fireplace, the gleam in his eyes barely visible over his newspaper. Thorin feels Bilbo stiffen beside him, and he himself clenches his jaw and hands as they head to their rooms.

The walk to their room is silent, full of apprehension at what they saw in the lobby. Thorin tries to regulate his breathing; he can almost sense Bilbo’s own tenseness next to him.

“That can’t be him,” says Bilbo as Thorin swipes them into their suite. It’s large and welcoming, with an ensuite bathroom stocked with amenities and a sitting room, which is separate from the bedroom through a wooden sliding door. The bed itself is enormous, and part of Thorin just wants to sink into it and never leave again.

“No,” he says, as he moves the plush dog sitting on the bed with the ‘do not disturb’ sign to the desk to set down his duffel bag. “It would be too coincidental.”

“It could just be a lookalike.” Bilbo is taking several deep breaths, fiddling with the buttons of his cardigan as he does so. He then proceeds to make himself extraordinarily busy, bustling around the room and hanging up their coats, making sure everything is tidy despite the fact that they’ve barely set their bags down.

“Bilbo.” Thorin steps towards him, gripping his wrist. “It’s going to be okay. I contacted Balin and Dwalin on our way here. They’ll be meeting us tonight; they’ll be somewhere nearby in this hotel. If Smaug is indeed here, he can’t get to us; I won’t leave you unprotected while we’re here.”

Bilbo looks down at his hand on his wrist, takes another deep breath, and nods. Slowly, he extricates himself and heads to the desk in the sitting area, pulling out a tray that hosts an array of biscuits and teas, as well as a kettle.

“When are we going to do the… the investigation?” he asks as he takes out the kettle and wanders into the bathroom to fill it with water.

“Not until we have Balin and Dwalin with us, so tomorrow at the very earliest,” reasons Thorin, following Bilbo at a slight distance with his brows furrowed.

Bilbo nods again. “So what are we going to be doing in all of this time in between?” he asks as he returns to the desk and starts boiling the water for tea. Thorin swallows, approaches him.

“There’s a lot we could do here,” he says. “They’ve got a pool, a spa, fitness centres, restaurants. There’s a hairdresser too, I hear. And of course, there’s also the town, we could go into the town or go see the castle at sunset — whatever you’d like to do.”

Bilbo smiles a little as he straightens up from the desk. “I’d like some tea before we decide anything,” he declares. Thorin chuckles, drawing him close by the waist and burying his face in Bilbo’s hair. He’s worn and sweaty from travel, but Thorin doesn’t care.

“Of course you would. And I suspect a nice bath, too. You could spend the evening at the spa; I could pay for whatever you’d like.”

“Why would I bother with that?” scoffs Bilbo. “I could instruct you on how to give me my massages.”

Thorin laughs at that. “What about the pool, then?” he asks. “The hotel website boasts that the hot tub at this place has an excellent view.”

Bilbo hums. “Perhaps,” he hedges, as he moves his hands to rest on Thorin’s shoulder.

Thorin chuckles at his indecisiveness. “Or we could get room service,” he points out, “and spend the night in doing whatever you’d like.”

Bilbo grins at him. “I like the sound of that,” he declares, and leans in to kiss him.

* * *

They do end up paying the hot tub a visit, though, and watch the sun set over the Lancashire countryside together before retiring to their suite to take a bath and order room service. The day seems to have taken its toll on Bilbo, given the travelling and the scare in the hotel lobby, and he’s out like a light by the time nine o’clock arrives. Thorin checks his mobile for a text or call from Balin or Dwalin, and receive none.

He frowns a little, and types out a message to Dwalin:

**_Are you here? -T_ **

He stares at the message for a while longer, worry curling in the pit of his stomach at the odd radio silence from his bodyguards, before distracting himself with watching crap telly on the large-screen TV in their bedroom until he, too, dozes off.

He jolts awake at midnight. Bilbo is asleep beside him, one arm carelessly draped across him. His mobile, charging on the nightstand, says that he’s missed some recent texts from Dwalin:

 **_Huge delays on the evening train. Sorry._ **   
**_Dwalin_ **

**_Just got here._ **   
**_Dwalin_ **

**_Just checked in._ **   
**_Dwalin_ **

**_Hello?_ **   
**_Dwalin_ **

Thorin checks the timestamp for the most recent message. It reads 11:15 PM. Quite late, all things considered. Carefully, so as not to disturb Bilbo, he sits up in bed to reply.

**_Huge delays? -T_ **

**_You just my texts? We got in at 11pm.  
Dwalin_ **

**_Bilbo and I went to bed early. -T_ **

**_To sleep?  
D_ **

**_What else? -T_ **

**_As if we don’t know what else you could be doing.  
D_ **

Thorin sighs, and changes the subject.

**_How’s your brother? -T_ **

**_Asleep, thank you.  
D_ **

**_What caused the delay? You were supposed to be here at 9. -T_ **

**_Engineering issues at one of the stops. They had to put us on the later train.  
D_ **

**_Oh. -T_ **

**_Better late than dead I guess. -T_ **

**_Get some sleep. We’re going to the von Brandt summer home tomorrow. -T_ **

**_Good night, Thorin  
D_ **

**_Good night. -T_ **

Thorin puts down his mobile and checks his alarm again. With another sigh, he puts his mobile back on the nightstand and shifts back down to lie next to Bilbo once more. The other man mumbles something in his sleep and burrows in closer to Thorin, holding him tighter.

Thorin smiles, and puts an arm around his partner as he drifts back into sleep.

 


	22. The Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed up the previous chapter a little more, for those of you who caught it within the first couple hours of its existence. There were some weird things going on with the lack of detail about the hotel, and as I am anal about these things I went back and fixed them. Woo. 
> 
> Also, warnings for Bilbo's backstory (tw abusive relationship), as well as additional warnings for depictions of PTSD, blood, and a hint of off-screen violence. I really wish I could've contributed a happier chapter since today is the Bagginshield anniversary, but alas.

The von Brandt summer home is thirteen minutes out of Lancaster, where the fields and hills are already rolling piles of green in the morning sun. Balin and Dwalin are up front, with Dwalin at the wheel, and Bilbo and Thorin sit in the back seat with Thorin keeping track of the directions with his mobile.

The property is gated, obviously, but the chain on the gate is broken and the ‘No Trespassing’ sign is barely hanging onto the rusting metal. Just a little ways beyond the desolate front lawn lies an old house that has clearly seen better days.

“Fairweather Heath,” says Thorin, looking at the plaque on the gate. “More like a withered heath to me.”

They park in front of the gate. Balin offers to stand guard by the car while Dwalin and Thorin — and Bilbo, though he has his reservations — slip in through the gates onto the property.

The house gets more and more dreary the closer they step to it. It’s a twisted shard of an old manor house, creeping over with ivy and and weeds. The stones of the front porch are cracked, and the doors and windows are locked.

“I don’t think this place has been lived in for quite some time,” remarks Thorin.

“I’m not too keen on testing that theory,” says Bilbo, peering through one of the downstairs windows.

The three of them begin to circle around the back of the house, Dwalin testing each window as they go around to find that all of them are locked. The kitchen door at the back, however, is slightly ajar. Thorin manages to push it open more, and he and BIlbo step in together.

The inside of Fairweather Heath is dark and musty, causing all of them to take out their phones to try to light the way. Though Bilbo initially begins the investigation glued tightly to Thorin’s side, he eventually peels away to wander around the rooms that Thorin is looking through. Soon, he’s going ahead of Thorin, his feet quiet on the dusty carpet and his gloved fingers ghosting across the faded and peeling wallpaper.

“When was this place deserted by the von Brandt family?” he asks after a moment.

Thorin purses his lips as he looks up the name of the house. “It says that this place was deserted about nine years ago,” he says after a moment, “when the current head of the family, Smaug, moved everything to the London residence.”

“And no one was left behind to take care of it?”

“If someone was, they’re doing a terrible job of it,” growls Dwalin as he enters the room with them and looks around him, glowering. “There are bloodstains under some of the wallpaper.”

“Bloodstains!” echo BIlbo and Thorin simultaneously. Bilbo quickly latches onto Thorin’s hand again. Thorin nods for Dwalin to show him.

Dwalin takes them into what seems to be a particularly unkempt master bedroom, where the corners are full of cobwebs and the carpet spewing out dust with every new step they take. Dwalin points his mobile at one of the peeling sections of wallpaper, and Thorin’s jaw tenses at the brown stains peeking out from underneath the newer layer of wallpaper.

He takes a picture for Dáin.

“Are there other buildings on this property?” Dwalin asks.

“A farmhouse,” says Thorin, remembering the case file. “There should be a farmhouse somewhere on the property.”

“Maps?” asks Bilbo, pulling out his own mobile.

“Dáin’s file on the Lancashire cold case says that the body was found in a farmhouse nearby. I don’t know how nearby it is; it could be within a kilometre of this place for all we know. And since this place is mostly farmland anyway, there are multiple farmhouses that could’ve been the one.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess and say it’s this one,” says Bilbo, holding up his mobile for Thorin to see the pin marking the location. Dwalin takes the mobile as well, takes a look, and nods.

“We’re all agreed then?” asks Thorin. Bilbo looks reluctant, but nods all the same. “Good. Let’s go find the farmhouse.”

* * *

A quick wander through the backyard of the manor reveals a small trail marked with a circle of stones. Thorin leads them down this path now, making sure Bilbo is within his sight at all times.

The trail leads them through a copse of trees, at the heart of which lies an old farmhouse, low and faded blue against the greenery of the trees. It, too, looks deserted, its paint chipped and peeling in places and weeds growing amply along the edges. The door is closed, but when Dwalin tries the handle, it turns.

However, the inside of the farmhouse is furnished as if it is still occupied, the worn, faded furniture lacking the fine coat of dust that decorates the furniture in the other house. The air is less musty, too; fewer dust motes dance in the light from the dirty windows.

Bilbo takes Thorin’s hand as they step from room to room, past the bare wooden table in the dining room, through the kitchen where a kettle is on the stove as if the owner had boiled the water dry. There are no stairs in this farmhouse; they follow the long hallway devoid of photographs and any other form of decoration until they get to the room at the end of the hall. The door is black. Once again, Dwalin manages to turn the handle, and they step in.

Thorin feels Bilbo squeeze his hand tighter. He turns to look at him, concerned. Bilbo is staring at the room in front of him with a pale expression, his eyes wide and breathing laboured.

A low whistle from Dwalin. Thorin takes in the room, too, in silent dread. There are blackout curtains on the windows that barely let the light in. The candles on the table have burnt low in their holders, wax dripping onto the wood. The austere iron four-poster bed in the centre of the room looks recently slept in.

The racks are bare, the bolts in the wall have nothing attached to them. But Thorin suspects he knows what this room had been used for. And judging by Bilbo’s expression, so does his partner, even moreso than he.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, a hand at the small of his back. “Bilbo? Look at me. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Without sparing the room another glance, Thorin directs Bilbo out of it, down the hall, through the better-lit parts of the farmhouse, and finally outside into the fresh air. It is late morning now, the sun is more solidly overhead, beating down on them as Bilbo sits on the grass outside and Thorin instructs him to breathe in and out at his command, not sure what else he can do to help.

“We’re going back to the hotel,” says Dwalin, and Thorin nods.

“Are you fine with that, Bilbo?” he asks, squeezing Bilbo’s hand. He really should have seen this coming; why did he agree to take Bilbo along? He’d put his partner in danger. They should never have done this.

Bilbo nods. There are tears prickling in the corners of his eyes as he slowly rises to his feet. Dwalin takes off his jacket and drapes it around Bilbo’s shoulders, and together, they head back along the trail back to the summer home, the car, and Balin.

* * *

**_We found the farmhouse. -T_ **

**_Did you find anything new? -DI_ **

**_Didn’t have a chance to look. -T_ **

**_My someone panicked and we had to leave. -T_ **

**_You took your someone to the scene of the crime. -DI_ **

**_He wanted to go. -T_ **

**_As if that helps. -DI_ **

**_No need to make me feel more awful than I already do. -T_ **

**_Do you know why your someone panicked? -DI_ **

**_Was it a response to present stimuli or some flashback? -DI_ **

**_I’m not about to ask him something like that. -T_ **

**_Well, if they recognised any of the things in the farmhouse, we could potentially link the cold case to S., remember? -DI_ **

**_I don’t want to force anything out of him. -T_ **

**_You and I will wait for him to tell us about it on his own terms. -T_ **

**_Understood. -DI_ **

**_Tell me if something comes up. -DI_ **

Thorin sets down the mobile. They’re back in their suite now. Bilbo has just finished showering, his tawny curls still wet as he wraps a white bathrobe tightly around himself and crosses the room to the sofa, stretching out on it.

“Are we feeling better?” asks Thorin quietly.

Bilbo nods, looking up at him. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, I am,” says Thorin. “I shouldn’t have exposed you to the farmhouse.”

“I recognised the bed,” says Bilbo quietly. Thorin raises an eyebrow at him, silently asking him to continue. “I was in that bed before, and for a moment I thought I was back there. Chained to it.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathes, kneeling down by the sofa next to his partner. “You don’t need to —”

“I’ve been in contact with James Bracegirdle,” Bilbo interrupts.

Thorin’s brows furrow. “What did he tell you?”

“He’s pressing charges.”

“Against Smaug?”

“The very same.” Bilbo’s voice is brittle. “Smaug has a pattern and only picks a very specific type of victim. He likes them inexperienced and young. Just old enough to be able to consent, just inexperienced enough to think that BDSM means the Dom doesn’t _need_ the sub’s consent.”

Thorin grits his teeth at that. “And they’ve all been male, too?” he asks.

Bilbo nods. “Young, inexperienced, submissive males. That’s his type. He’ll find them at parties, pick them up from clubs. It doesn’t really matter where. In fact, I first met him at a party I’d attended with Gandalf, back when he still taught full-time at King’s College London.”

Thorin feels something rise in his throat that he can’t quite swallow. When Bilbo touches his cheek, he leans into the touch, desperate to reaffirm and remind his partner that he cares, that he understands, that he wants to help. Slowly, Bilbo continues:

“I’ve told you what happened next,” he says. “And I know you wonder why I didn’t see the warning signs and leave.”

“I wouldn’t —”

“He was persuasive. Charming and threatening. I don’t remember agreeing to half of the things I agreed to with him. I’d even fallen asleep one night and woken up with a gash on my shoulder.”

Thorin reaches out, one hand ghosting over Bilbo’s left shoulder. Bilbo nods.

“Bracegirdle says he has the same mark,” he says.

“Are you also going to press charges?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo shrugs. He swings into a sitting position, cupping Thorin’s cheeks, pressing soft kisses all over his face.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to walk into a courtroom and be forced to relive everything all over again.”

Thorin captures his lips briefly, chastely, and sighs when they break apart. “Whatever you choose to do, I will support,” he says quietly. As long as he can kneel at Bilbo’s feet like this, as long as he will have Bilbo by his side, nothing else matters.

* * *

The rest of the day is spent lazily, lounging on the deck by the pool and soaking in the hot tub. Thorin watches Bilbo carefully throughout the day, always torn between expressing his concern and not wanting to seem too stifling. His partner seems fine, but sometimes his hands tremble a little as he rubs his left shoulder. Thorin hasn’t seen that before, and it worries him.

Bilbo burns easily in the summer sun, so Thorin finds himself frequently reapplying sunscreen as a result, his hands carefully gentle against his partner’s back. He wishes he could say more things than questions about Bilbo’s state of mind, but nothing else seems to want to escape him.

“You can go a bit harder, you know,” says Bilbo.

“Sorry,” says Thorin.

“No need to apologise. I just wasn’t sure if you were actually applying sunscreen to my back.”

Thorin chuckles a little, and proceeds with a firmer touch, revelling in the soft skin of his partner beneath him. Bilbo hums as his hands caress his sides and along the small of his back. Thorin pauses, his hands resting on Bilbo’s hips, as he presses a kiss to the base of Bilbo’s neck.

Bilbo laughs. “Now are you applying sunscreen, or suggesting we move back inside?” he asks.

“I’m applying sunscreen,” replies Thorin.

“With your lips?”

“Would you like me to do the front?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow at him, but nods and shifts to face him. Thorin works the strong-smelling lotion into his thighs and calves, kneeling in front of him as he does so.

“You pamper me so,” remarks Bilbo, running a hand through Thorin’s hair. It’s been growing a bit long; Thorin’s not sure whether he should cut it or leave it as it is, tied up occasionally in a ponytail or a bun. Either way, it feels good at its current length, especially when Bilbo is pulling at it in the throes of ecstasy.

“At your service,” replies Thorin. Bilbo laughs, though the laugh gets a little breathless as Thorin looks up at him and tries so hard to let his care and affection for his partner show in his eyes.

“You wonderful fusspot,” Bilbo says, mussing up his hair as he leans down to kiss him, and Thorin privately thinks that he’d like nothing more than to live in this moment, to die in Bilbo’s lap, and to be buried in his eyes.

The sun is setting when they start to head in. Thorin keeps an eye out for the well-dressed stranger from yesterday. He notices him still in the seat by the hearth in the reception lobby, but the man does not seem to be paying attention to them.

He and Bilbo pass a young blond man heading down the stairs on their way up. Bilbo’s arm around Thorin tightens a little as Thorin turns to watch the man head straight for the well-dressed man in the lobby. Bilbo pulls at him, but Thorin is engrossed in this meeting with an almost sickened fascination.

Bilbo pulls him away at last when the strangers leave. “What got your attention like that?” he asks, and Thorin shrugs, pulling out his mobile to text Dáin:

**_DId you check the Von Brandt summer home? It’s on the adjacent property. -T_ **

**_We only had a warrant for the farmhouse. -DI_ **

**_Well, I went into the summer home. It’s deserted. It’s been deserted for a while. I found this. -T_ **

**_< evidence.png> -T_ **

**_God, Thorin, you’re not supposed to go wandering into abandoned houses looking for evidence! -DI_ **

**_How’s any of that going to hold up in court! -DI_ **

**_Can we focus on the actual evidence and not on how I obtained it? -T_ **

**_Look at those splatters on the wall. -T_ **

**_Something happened there. -T_ **

**_I don’t see how that links it to the cold case. -DI_ **

**_It might not be, but it’s worth investigating. -T_ **

**_Yeah, maybe if you got a private detective or something. My dept. isn’t going to go running up to Lancashire for a couple splatters on the wall. -DI_ **

Thorin growls at that. Bilbo looks at him. His partner has led him to the door of their suite now, concern in his face as well. Thorin pocket his mobile as Bilbo swipes them in, and privately wishes that this entire investigative ordeal was already over and done with.

Just one damn mistake. It’s all Thorin wants. One. Damn. Mistake. And he’s going to be there to find it.

* * *

The clock reads three o’clock in the morning when Thorin slips out of bed. Careful not to disturb Bilbo or the snoring form of Dwalin who has taken the couch as his guard post, he dresses and creeps out of the room.

The fields are dark and dreary at night, the trees twisted in the headlights. The gate to Fairweather Heath seems even more austere in the wee hours of the morning, and Thorin can’t help but shiver as he approaches them with only a flashlight and his keys to defend himself.

He finds the trail to the farmhouse as quickly as he can, heart beating wildly in his chest as he creeps back into the building.

Something’s changed. There’s been a struggle. Chairs are overturned, vases and glasses lie broken upon the floor. With bated breath he creeps past this dreadful tableau and down the hall towards the bedroom, dreading what he might find in there. The beams of his flashlight pick up a dreadful story of scratches and splatters on the wall.

The bedroom door is ajar. Inside the covers of the bed are overturned, the candles have melted completely, straps are left dangling from the bolts on the wall. Someone’s used the room.

There’s a riding crop on the floor in a pool of blood.

Thorin exhales, and kneels down, not daring to touch it yet intrigued nonetheless. He peers at it closely in sickened fascination before pulling out his mobile to capture the entire scene.

He retraces his steps, taking photographs of everything else he sees, and finally exits the house with a large sigh of relief and a rapidly-slammed door. His heart races a mile inside his chest, pounding loudly in his ears.

It’s only when he’s slowed down his breathing that he realises he’s being watched, and he turns his head to see a figure clad in rags, his hand holding a tin mug.

“Who are you?” the figure asks in a voice that speaks volumes of his suspicions, “and what are you doing here?”


	23. The Cleaners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The investigation continues. More hints of offscreen past violence; please read at your own discretion.

“You’re not the man from earlier,” remarks the figure. Thorin slowly raises his hands up, palms forward, in an appeasing gesture.

“Should I be glad about that?” he asks.

The figure snorts. He has a beanie pulled over his scraggly brown hair and an unkempt brown beard to match. “I should think so. That man’s bad news, I say. I’d have half a mind to go to police, if I weren’t also tryin’ to keep a low profile. Who are you, anyway?”

“I could ask the same of you,” retorts Thorin, lowering his hands. “Do you live here?”

“Occasionally,” says the man, scowling. “I squat here when I can. But now I figure I’ve gotta find somewhere else, because soon the coppers will be on this property like white on rice.”

“Why would you say that?” asks Thorin.

“Were you even in the house?” demands the man. “There’s been a murder, I just know it. Some posh bastard from London came up with his little boy toy and discarded him here. Surely you saw the blood.”

“I did,” agrees Thorin. “But did you see them? Could you tell me what the posh bastard looked like?”

The man opens his mouth, ostensibly to tell him what he knew, but at that exact moment they hear the sound of a lorry pulling up through the trees on the other side of the farmhouse. Thorin and the man quickly rush for the trees, ducking out of sight just as two flashlight beams appear on the property.

“Nasty little love nest, innit?” one of the voices asks.

“You shut your mouth and do as you’re told, Snaga,” retorts another, a lower, more authoritative one. An extremely burly man appears, illuminated by the beam of the other man’s flashlight. “The boss didn’t hire you for your opinions.”

Snaga goes up to the door and opens it. “It’s unlocked,” he notes. “You said it’d be locked. I brought the tools and everything.”

The burly man growls. “Just get inside and clean it up.”

“Whatever you say, Mr Sullivan,” retorts Snaga. The two men enter the farmhouse. Thorin peers out from behind the tree and tries to move towards the house, only to be pulled back by the squatter.

“What the devil d’you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

“Those two were hired by someone to clean up the mess inside. I want to know why,” Thorin whispers back.

“What, and get captured or killed?” demands the squatter. “Don’t be stupid, whoever you are.”

Thorin growls in frustration, but settles back against the tree once more. He turns to the squatter.

“I could be missing out on vital information.”

“You could be missing out on your life, you numbskull,” snaps the squatter, and the rather snippy tone he’s taken with Thorin reminds him of Bilbo somehow. He smiles a bit, in spite of himself. “Just stay put. You can thank me later.”

“What makes you think these two are so dangerous?” asks Thorin.

“They don’t exactly look like rabbits, in case you haven’t noticed,” replies the squatter, rolling his eyes.

“Have you run into them in the past?” asks Thorin.

The man cackles. “Oh, definitely,” he says. “Big one’s Bolg Sullivan. I had a friend run afoul of him once. All the coppers ever found of him was an eyeball and a severed hand, and they still can’t link the crime to Bolg. That man’s good at what he does.”

Thorin peers out from behind the tree again, frowning. “And he’s working to clean up a crime scene for someone,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

The squatter makes a noise of agreement. Thorin reaches for his phone.

“I think there’s someone in Scotland Yard —” he begins, but is cut off by the squatter.

“How’s that going to look, if the coppers find us at a cleaned-up crime scene? I’ll bet you anything that Bolg will manage to escape by the time they get here.”

Thorin sighs, but he tenses up at the sound of the farmhouse door opening again. Hesitantly, he peers out from behind the tree to see Bolg Sullivan and Snaga emerging from the farm, dragging two large black rubbish bags behind them.

“Where’d the nice pretty boy go, anyhow?” asks Snaga.

“Gone,” grunts Bolg.

Thorin feels a sinking sensation in his gut. Was this the blond he and Bilbo had seen at the hotel? If so, then who was the man he’d been with? Could it really have been —

Snaga speaks up again: “Where’s the boss, at any rate?”

There’s a dull thump, as Bolg cuffs him about the head. “All you need to know is that he’s heading back to London today,” he snaps. “He’s got some unfinished business to take care of with the company that’s building the new Gundabad headquarters.”

It feels as though someone has replaced all the blood in his body with freezing ice water. Thorin’s world narrows down to the furious pounding of his heart echoing in his ears; he more senses than knows that he has sunk down onto the ground, his legs suddenly incapable of holding him up.

“They’re gone now.” The squatter’s voice can barely be heard through the pounding in Thorin’s ears. “You alright, man? You look like shit.”

Thorin swallows, blinks. Slowly, unsteadily, he rises to his feet.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What for?” asks the squatter, reaching out and taking his arm, his brows worried. “Where to?”

“I have to go,” repeats Thorin with more urgency as he shakes off the squatter’s hand and scrambles down the trail back to the summer home.

* * *

The sun is starting to rise, the morning sky pale through the trees and above the still-dark fields as Thorin drives back to the hotel. His hands are clammy on the steering wheel; he tries hard to control his breathing.

Smaug is here. He’s in Lancashire. And Thorin suspects he knows that Bilbo is staying with him. He should’ve taken that as the first sign of trouble and booked them rooms at another hotel. He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve.

So much doubt, so much insecurity, so much regret. Thorin grits his teeth as his car pulls into the parking lot outside the hotel. What’s past is past; all he needs to know is that Bilbo, right _now_ , is safe. That Smaug hasn’t taken the opportunity of Thorin sneaking out to investigate his farmhouse to get to Bilbo somehow. He checks his mobile, breath seizing when he sees numerous missed calls and texts from Bilbo:

**_Where are you?  
BB_ **

**_Thorin answer your phone  
BB_ **

**_This is urgent  
BB_ **

Something’s happened. Something bad’s happened, and it’s all his fault. He tries calling Bilbo back, but the calls are dropped, the line remains busy.

Something’s happened to Bilbo.

His gut curls uneasily as he races into the reception lobby and takes the stairs two at a time, hands fumbling for his mobile once again.

“Dáin!” he roars the instant he hears his cousin’s tired groan about Thorin calling him at inappropriate times of the night. “I need you up here, Smaug von Brandt’s made a move!”

That gets Dáin’s attention. “What?!” the Detective Inspector demands.

“Another victim,” says Thorin.

“Your —”

“No, thank god.” The sentence sounds a lot more relieved than he feels. He swipes into the suite with a pounding heart, which plummets the instant he sees that the room is empty. Dwalin and Bilbo are both gone.

“My someone isn’t in his room,” Thorin whispers. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Dáin.

“I’ll be up on the earliest train I can get,” he promises, and the click feels deafening to Thorin’s ears as he hangs up and dashes back out the room in search of Bilbo.

* * *

Thorin knows he must look like a complete loon, running wildly around this hotel, combing each and every floor for signs of his partner. What only adds to his worry is Balin not answering the door to his and Dwalin’s room, either, and so by the time Thorin returns to the ground floor to go through the hotel’s restaurant, spa, pool, and exercise room, he’s still not sure how he hasn’t collapsed from nerves yet.

He’s about to call the local police when he sees them in the lobby. Two brawny police officers are talking to Dwalin by the reception desk, and Bilbo and Balin are talking with the harried-looking receptionist on the other side. All of the air rushes out of him in relief, and it takes him a moment before he gets enough back into his lungs to call out to them.

“Bilbo!” he shouts, and Bilbo turns around, expression wild, before sinking into a smile of relief. It takes Thorin less than ten seconds to be at his side, his fingers tangling into his partner’s tawny curls, his nose inhaling the musky scent of Bilbo’s aftershave. “Oh my god, Bilbo, when I returned and saw that you weren’t there, I panicked —”

“You…!” Bilbo thumps at his chest, unable to come up with what Thorin is exactly. “Imagine my shock to wake up and not find you there! And you didn’t pick up my calls or answer my texts!”

“I did! I tried calling you — I thought something’d happened to you!”

His only response is Bilbo yanking him down by the lapels of his jacket into a kiss. The man looks tired, worried; Thorin’s own stomach curls up in guilt at having caused all of this. When they break apart, he adds:

“I did call, I swear. It just didn’t get through to you.”

“I was probably on the phone with the police at the time,” says Bilbo, looking over at the two burly officers talking to Dwalin. “Bert and Tom, from the local constabulary.”

“Sorry,” Thorin offers to the police officers, when they turn to glare at him. They nod, tersely, and one of them mutters something into their radio.

“What on earth were you doing, leaving without a trace this morning?” Bilbo continues, smoothing down Thorin’s jacket. “No note, no text… not even waking up Dwalin to let him know you were gone! We were all going frantic over your disappearance —”

“You were right,” interrupts Thorin. “Smaug von Brandt’s come up here with some new conquest.”

Bilbo’s hands pause. “A new…” he murmurs. Thorin nods.

“Yes. I got back here as soon as I could, because I thought he’d take the opportunity to get to you — “

“Where were you?” Bilbo demands.

Thorin swallows, sends a nervous look to the police. Realisation dawns on Bilbo’s face.

“Why’d you go back?” he hisses.

“Something bad happened there,” whispers Thorin. “Someone’s been killed. I bet it’s the boy we saw in the lobby yesterday. I had to call Dáin and get him to come up here on the early train.”

Bilbo nods, just as the police officers leave and Dwalin comes over to them. “Thorin, don’t pull a stunt like that again; I think you might’ve just shortened my life by ten years,” Dwalin snaps by way of greeting. Thorin laughs sheepishly, clapping Dwalin on the shoulder.

“My apologies,” he replies, and then pauses, looks at the departing police. “Are they leaving?”

“They’re answering a call,” says Dwalin. “Something about a body discovered on Bolton Lane.”

Thorin’s stomach drops to his feet.

* * *

Dáin arrives at the hotel in time for brunch, disgruntled but determined. Balin and Dwalin are pleased to see him, though, and Thorin finally introduces him to Bilbo.

“So this is your someone,” says Dáin with an amused look. He shakes Bilbo’s hand; Bilbo nods and sends a look over at Thorin that’s a mixture of amused and ‘don’t think this will let you off the hook about possible future punishments’. Thorin has the sneaking feeling that Bilbo’s going to make him do lines.

“He’s agreed to give us whatever information he can provide about Smaug von Brandt, yes,” says Thorin.

“Do you know anything about the Lancashire case, Mr Baggins?” asks Dáin, turning to Bilbo.

“The cold one?” asks Bilbo. “I was informed by Gandalf Grey, yes.”

Dáin growls. “Of course,” he mutters.

“You know him?” asks Thorin, as Bilbo’s hand rests idly on his thigh. Thorin looks at Bilbo, who smiles back with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Few folks who work for Her Majesty’s Government don’t know about Gandalf Grey. He’s an open secret to us.” Dáin spears a sausage with his fork and pops it into his mouth. “In any case, that’s not relevant —  the local boys have given me the information on the body they’ve found today. They’ve yet to do an autopsy, but I suspect it’s the same as the case from a couple years back. We might be able to reopen the case.”

“Another John Doe?” asks Bilbo as his hand trails up Thorin’s thigh. Thorin feels shivers down his spine at the feather-light pressure of Bilbo’s hands against his trousers.

“No one who filed a missing persons report has been able to identify the body,” says Dáin.

“Try asking people in London,” Thorin suggests.

Dáin’s eyes narrow at him. “Is there something you know about John Doe that I don’t?” he asks.

Thorin pulls out his mobile in response and shows Dáin the photographs. “I was at the farmhouse again earlier this morning.”

“Cor blimey, Thorin, have you no sense of self-preservation?” demands Dáin, scrolling through the photos. “What in god’s green earth are you doing at a fresh crime scene so early in the morning? Is that how you figured out that von Brandt was here?”

“He’d hired some people, one of them named Bolg Sullivan, to clean up the mess,” Thorin explains. Dáin scrubs at his eyes and pockets the mobile.

“I don’t want this falling into the wrong hands,” he points out as Thorin opens his mouth to protest. Thorin closes his mouth again, and feels Bilbo’s hands inching up to the apex of his legs, to where he is rapidly hardening at Bilbo’s touch.

“What did Bolg Sullivan say?” Bilbo asks innocently. The palm of his hand ghosts across Thorin’s crotch.

Thorin bites his lips. Bilbo’s at it with his ‘testing Thorin’s self-control’ routine again, except this time, it’s so much worse ( _and so much better_ , part of his brain supplies unhelpfully). “He said that his boss had ‘unfinished business’ with the ‘company building the new Gundabad headquarters’ or something, and anyone who knows about our business deal knows that it’s Erebor who’s doing the dubious honours, and I’m the MD for Erebor.”

“And he’s heading back to London to do it? If he’d seen us in Lancashire, he would’ve known we were in the area instead of heading back to London,” Bilbo points out.

Dáin nods. “Your someone’s got a point,” he says to Thorin.

“Maybe he does actually have unfinished business,” Bilbo muses, “and not of a personal nature regarding you or me.”

There’s a long silence. Thorin looks at Balin and Dwalin. They look on silently, watchfully.

“Why don’t I have a look through the hotel records, see who’s been checking in or out?” Dáin interjects into the silence after a moment. “You think the John Doe’s from London?”

“I think he was travelling with von Brandt, yes.”

Dáin nods, tapping at the tablecloth before pushing his chair back. “I’ll be back shortly,” he says, and Thorin nods, feeling his ears turn red as Bilbo’s fingers trace the curve of his bulge under the table. He clenches the handle of his fork and grits his teeth, conjuring up images of filing cabinets and taxes to maintain his composure.

Bilbo continues to stroke him through the fabric of his trousers. Thorin tries to keep his breathing steady, looking over at Balin and Dwalin, who are conversing quietly amongst themselves as they eat. He can feel the blush spreading to his cheeks as Bilbo pulls down the zipper of his fly and his fingers inch inside.

He bites down furiously onto a roll to stop himself from moaning when he feels Bilbo’s fingers against his cock. Bilbo’s expression is completely innocent; he’s even eating his breakfast with the other hand that isn’t driving Thorin insane. It’s definitely unfair, though any further thoughts on the situation fly out the window when Bilbo’s thumb caresses the tip of his cock, and he has to bite down on the roll again to stifle a moan.

“Is everything okay, laddie?” Balin asks with a quirked eyebrow. “You look a bit flushed.”

“Um,” replies Thorin. “Lots of things have just happened?” He cringes inwardly at how strained his voice sounds. Bilbo chuckles softly into his mug of tea. Thorin glares at him, and then bites down hard on his lips when Bilbo’s fingers tease at his balls in retaliation.

He’s not sure how he manages to survive the next couple of minutes without making a fool of himself, although it _does_ help that Bilbo’s hand isn’t constantly moving — sometimes he pulls back (and Thorin has to suppress a groan of disappointment), and sometimes he remains still, warm against Thorin’s hardness. It’s the stillness, the constant hovering presence, that keeps Thorin on the edge, keeps him waiting and wanting more.

Bilbo’s hand starts moving again after a minute — not that Thorin was keeping track — of stillness. Thorin bites into another roll to stop himself from moaning; it takes all of his efforts not to close his eyes and buck into Bilbo’s hands, as Balin and Dwalin are right there at the table with them, and Dáin is bound to return any minute. But that resolve is rapidly crumbling under the deft touches of Bilbo’s fingers, and finally, just when he’s at the very edge of climax, when his his heart is racing in a pleasant way and his breathing is coming out ragged, Dáin returns with the police officers from earlier flanking him.

Bilbo’s hand hastily beat their retreat, and Thorin groans in disappointment.

“Mr Oakenshield?” asks one of the police officers. Thorin’s not sure if he’s Bert or Tom, but either way he’s quite exasperated at the man’s presence. “Could you come with us? We’d like to ask you a couple questions.”

Thorin regretfully zips himself back up before he stands and follows them out of the restaurant.

* * *

He’s led into a meeting room of sorts, where a third officer is waiting with a file in his hands. Dáin is waiting outside; Thorin can see him through the shutters on the windows.

“I’m Detective Inspector William Stone,” says the third officer, “and we’ve received allegations from a suspect regarding your involvement with the murder of this man.”

He pushes across the table a picture of the body. Thorin looks down and sees, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, the blond from yesterday afternoon.

“I don’t know anything about this man,” he says.

“Mr Oakenshield, where were you between 3AM and 6AM this morning?”

Thorin grits his teeth. He can tell where this is heading. They must have caught the squatter; how else would they know that he had been there at the farmhouse during those times? He takes a deep breath.

“Can I call my barrister, please?”


	24. Endings and Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this will be last of the investigation for the next couple of chapters, so as usual: warnings for mentions of a sexually motivated murder and Bilbo's backstory of a past abusive relationship. If there's anything else I should warn against, please let me know.

The three police officers all look at one another darkly. DI Stone glares at him, but begrudgingly nods all the same. Thorin reaches for his mobile as he rises to his feet, intent on calling Balin to notify the family barrister — but then another phone rings, and DI Stone picks up.

“Hello?” he grunts, and then his entire expression goes dark. The other two lean in as well, and Thorin pauses in his own dialling, watching the three officers with bated breath.

“I don’t understand, sir,” says DI Stone. “Haban has been evading us for months now, and you want us to let him go?”

Another pause.

“He’s currently the best suspect we’ve got! He’s got a criminal record, and he was squatting at the scene of the crime. How do we know he didn’t do it?”

Another pause. The voice on the other end sounds more irritated.

“We’re still keeping him in for his other charges,” grinds out DI Stone. “We’ll drop the murder — As well as the man he implicated?”

Thorin swallows. It feels oddly loud to his ears.

“No, he’s not in custody. We were just talking to him. He wants a barrister.”

Thorin lowers his mobile. DI Stone looks up at him, mistrust etched onto every corner of his face.

“Well, if you say I should let him go, I suppose I have no choice, then,” says DI Stone grouchily, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s. “But it’s on your head, Mr Grey.”

Mr Grey. Gandalf. Thorin exhales. The DI hangs up.

“Can I leave?” Thorin asks, rubbing it in a little more.

The DI scowls at him as he lowers the phone. “Yes,” he says in a tone that clearly means ‘Get the fuck out’, and Thorin is only too happy to oblige.

* * *

He hails a cab back to the hotel and rings Balin the instant he’s in the cab.

“What happened?” Balin asks, and Thorin tells him — the questioning, his demand for a barrister, the phone call from someone he suspects is Gandalf. Balin sighs at him when he’s done.

“Walking out of that might’ve been the smartest thing you’ve done in months,” he says.

“Shut up,” Thorin retorts, leaning against the seat and flashing a brief smile at the cabbie peering curiously at him through the rear view mirror. “They were trying to make me confess to something. I can’t do the investigation if I’m locked up, right?”

He hears a wry chuckle on the other end. Balin has known him since childhood; Thorin knows most of his excuses sound flimsy to the old guard’s ear by now.

“You could have not gone to the farmhouse,”  Balin points out after a moment. Thorin glowers, though it’s a waste of expression over the phone.

“But we’ve now gotten a breakthrough,” he says. “There’s a body, and Smaug von Brandt put it there —”

“Not what the police believe, I think, considering that they were interrogating you.”

Thorin sighs. “The squatter must’ve mentioned me,” he says. “There’s no other way they could’ve connected me to the farmhouse.”

“The squatter?” echoes Balin.

“I ran into a squatter.” Thorin pauses, looks at the back of the cabbie’s head before continuing in a lower voice, “they usually squat at the farmhouse, but von Brandt was there last night with John Doe, so he had to find somewhere else to hide. The coppers think, of course, that he’s done it, because he’s had several run-ins with the law before, and he was at the scene of the crime.”

“And then he implicated you, MD of Erebor Engineering.” Balin’s voice is soft. “You’re not far from fitting the paper description of Mr von Brandt.”

Thorin growls. “Don’t compare me to him,” he snaps.

“I’m sure you don’t have his criminal profile, if that helps to lessen the comparison,” Balin replies serenely. Thorin heaves a sigh.

“Has Dáin found out anything?” he asks.

A pause. “If he has, he hasn’t told me anything,” Balin says after a moment. “And are you sure the phone call is from Gandalf?”

“The DI said that the consequences of letting me go was on a ‘Mr Grey’s’ head,” replies Thorin.

He hears a hum from Balin. “Possible, possible,” murmurs the old guard. “Are you near the hotel now?”

Thorin looks out the window just as the cabbie pulls up to the hotel. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve just arrived.”

He pays the cabbie more than the expected fare and strides off, hearing the click of a phone hanging up as he enters the lobby. Thorin looks up to find Balin descending the staircase towards him. The old bodyguard nods at him as Thorin meets him at the foot of the staircase.

“How’s Bilbo?” are the first words out of Thorin’s mouth.

Balin nods. “Fine. He’s in your suite.”

Thorin nods as well. “We’ll talk more about this later,” he promises, and then takes the stairs two at a time on his way up.

* * *

Bilbo is sitting on the bed with his mobile in his hands when Thorin enters; he looks up as Thorin approaches, and sets down his mobile as Thorin finally stops in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” says Bilbo after a moment.

“We’re saying that a lot,” Thorin remarks. Bilbo laughs, shakes his head.

“What happened before you went to the precinct was… unprofessional of me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Thorin shakes his head. “I thought you were punishing me,” he says. “Testing my self-control again, like what we did on the Eye —”

“No,” says Bilbo with a sigh. “I don’t know what it was, but I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

Thorin nods, taking a seat next to Bilbo on the bed. “They let me go because of Gandalf,” he says, by way of changing the subject, and Bilbo raises an eyebrow.

“They did?” he echoes.

“They got a call from Mr Grey and had to let me go.”

“Did you tell them anything about where you were?”

Thorin shakes his head. “I told them I wanted a barrister.”

Bilbo nods. “Good.” A pause. “If I were to punish you for what you did this morning, it probably would’ve been lines, not… groping you under the table like I’m some sort of horny teenager. I really am sorry —” He’s cut off by Thorin’s finger to his lips.

“What’s past is past,” insists Thorin. “Have you been worrying about this the entire time I was gone?”

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” defends Bilbo, but Thorin chuckles.

“Well, don’t worry about it anymore, all right? I’m back, I’m not arrested, and — more importantly — I’m not mad at you for what happened at breakfast.” A pause. “Except for the part where we didn’t get to finish.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow at him. “Really? Because I can’t help but feel that these past few days haven’t been — well, I’d thought that a change of scenery was also going to help us put some variation into our — and there’s this big bed in this big room and it’s so soft and we haven’t used it for things other than sleeping — I just —” His mouth works a bit, trying to encapsulate his words into something more distinguishable, but he gives up and fidgets with his mobile instead. “I feel out of my element,” he admits.

It’s a bit liberating, Thorin thinks, to know that Bilbo doesn’t really know what he’s doing, to know that someone who usually exerts such control over him in their scenes isn’t quite sure what to say or do in this moment. He leans in, then, and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s lips, and Bilbo kisses back, and Thorin wonders how such a familiar gesture can still feel like he’s doing it the first time, every time.

“Maybe I should be punished,” Bilbo remarks, almost jokingly, when they pull apart. “You have every right to turn the tables, and we _have_ negotiated for switching —”

“Sod it,” replies Thorin. “This isn’t going to be a scene. I just want to take care of you.”

Bilbo looks up at him, nodding. Thorin kisses him again, and then reaches for the buttons of Bilbo’s shirt.

“Close your eyes,” he suggests, and Bilbo complies. Thorin revels in how beautiful his partner looks, with his cheeks flushed slightly and eyes closed, his face upturned in anticipation. He slowly begins to unbutton Bilbo’s shirt, pressing a soft kiss to somewhere on Bilbo’s face with each new button freed. Shivers run down his spine at the soft, breathy noises Bilbo makes in return; he’s becoming hard again, and all he’s done is unbutton Bilbo’s shirt.

He pushes Bilbo’s shirt and cardigan off his shoulders then, hands lingering on the man’s bare shoulders as he starts kissing a trail down Bilbo’s neck, nipping playfully at the soft skin at his collar. Bilbo gives a soft cry then, his fingers moving to entangle themselves in Thorin’s hair as they fall back onto the bed.

“Keep your eyes closed,” warns Thorin. Bilbo laughs.

“You might as well blindfold me, so I’m not tempted to disobey,” he retorts, and Thorin sighs as he pulls away.

“If you say so,” he replies, and then pauses. “What do we have?”

“Lube and condoms are in my duffel,” says Bilbo, still spread like a paragon of temptation on the bed. “If you want dental dams, you can snip the tip of one of the condoms and cut along the shaft.”

“But no blindfolds?” asks Thorin as he rummages through Bilbo’s duffel, pulling out the condoms and lube. “You thought we’d get it on in Lancashire, but never thought to bring your play bag?”

“I’d debated it,” admits Bilbo. “But you can improvise a blindfold with a scarf, you know.”

“But what if I wanted to tie you up?”

“Well, you’re out of luck there,” replies Bilbo with a wry chuckle. “Scarves tighten when you pull at them, after all. If you absolutely don’t want me to do anything, just tell me. I’ll try to resist the temptation.”

Thorin huffs in laughter as he pulls out one of Bilbo’s scarves and returns to the bed. “If you want, you can move up to where the pillows are,” he suggests, and Bilbo complies, and even though his shirt and cardigan are only half-off and his trousers are still on, he somehow manages to look thoroughly debauched as he lies with his eyes closed against the pillows. Thorin’s almost impossibly hard at the sight.

He shucks his own clothes fairly quickly before clambering onto the bed towards Bilbo, scarf and condoms in hand. Bilbo gasps the moment Thorin presses a kiss to his bared chest. “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Thorin reassures, and Bilbo sighs as he slowly sits up and discards his shirt.

“What are you going to do?” Bilbo asks quietly, as Thorin ties the scarf around his head as gently as he can.

“Well, I was thinking of riding you, but if you’re not up for it —” Thorin begins, but Bilbo laughs at that, and lurches in his general direction as if to kiss him.

“I think I’m more than up for it, if you want to know,” replies his partner, and the wink is evident in his voice if not on his face. Thorin rolls his eyes as he gently pushes Bilbo back down against the pillows.

“You’re terrible,” he rebukes.

“They call me the punisher,” retorts Bilbo, giggling. Thorin vaguely wonders if this is what Bilbo is like when he’s the sub. He rather likes it.

“I’ll never look at punishment the right way again,” Thorin promises, before unfastening the fly of Bilbo’s trousers. The other man’s laughter quickly turn into moans soon after, as Thorin slowly kisses his way through soft golden curls, as his fingers pull Bilbo’s pants and trousers off his hips. He cares for Bilbo with each kiss, each lick, his mouth and tongue worshipping his partner’s cock with unholy reverence. Bilbo’s fingers move to grip his hair, but Thorin pulls away at that.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I’m not allowed to touch?” asks Bilbo.

“No,” says Thorin. “Since we were speaking of punishment and all of that.”

Bilbo chuckles, but complies, his fingers digging into the sheets instead. Thorin regrets the decision, but only slightly, as Bilbo has other ways of rewarding him. He’s not quiet in his submission, and Thorin vaguely considers bringing up kettles and pots as Bilbo offers moan after moan in reply to Thorin’s mouth bobbing up and down along his cock.

He pulls away after a moment to roll a condom onto Bilbo’s cock before straddling him and coating his own fingers in lube to prepare himself.

“Do you need help with that?” Bilbo asks, evidently sensing what Thorin is doing.

“No,” replies Thorin, even though he’s grateful that his partner is blindfolded. He definitely looks and feels foolish right now, but he knows it’ll be worth it in the end. “I’ll be fine.”

And when he does sink down onto Bilbo’s cock, taking it inch by painstakingly wonderful inch, he is rewarded with the curling of Bilbo’s fingers in the sheets, by the tilting of his head and a low moan of his name. Even when he’s not doing anything at all, Bilbo has a remarkable way to make Thorin feel wanted, needed, _desired_.

He moves with Bilbo then, their foreheads pressed together, Bilbo’s hands white-knuckled against the sheets, his own fingers buried deep in his partner’s tawny curls as he rides him. With each roll of his hips he takes and gives, one hand moving to stroke at his own cock as they move together.

“Please,” Bilbo says after a moment, and the word is almost enough to get Thorin to stop.

“Please?” he echoes.

“Let me see you,” Bilbo finishes, and Thorin hums in agreement as he reaches out to untie the blindfold. Bilbo blinks at him when the scarf is removed, and then with a soft cry his hips jerk upwards and he comes, looking so beautifully undone that it sends Thorin over the edge after him.

When everything is cleaned up and disposed of, Thorin collapses next to Bilbo, feeling warm and boneless as his partner takes him in his arms, tracing patterns and designs into his skin with a finger. Thorin closes his eyes, trying to figure out what Bilbo’s writing.

“Am I forgiven?” Bilbo wonders after a moment.

“Was there ever anything to forgive?” Thorin wonders. “I didn’t think you did wrong.”

Bilbo hums, and traces three words into Thorin’s skin that sends his heart beating faster. He responds by tangling his hands in Bilbo’s hair a little tighter, and feels Bilbo’s smile against his cheek moments later.

And like that, they fall asleep, all thoughts of the investigation dispelled for the time being.

* * *

Dáin, Dwalin, and Balin are in the compartment with them on the train back to London. Dáin, who has heard about Gandalf’s intervention, is looking through the case files with some amount of irritation.

“So, are you reopening the cold case?” Thorin asks. Bilbo turns from the window to Dáin, one eyebrow raised.

The DI stows away his folder. “The Lancaster police are looking into it; it’s out of my hands.”

“But are you going to look into the lead I gave you?” insists Thorin.

“About looking for missing uni boys in London?” wonders Dáin. “Like I said, it’s out of my hands. The crimes happened in Lancashire; the investigation stays there for now.”

“James Bracegirdle is pressing charges against Smaug von Brandt,” Bilbo pipes up after a moment. “You could look into his allegations, see if anything in there looks familiar.”

Dáin raises an eyebrow at him, as if encouraging him to continue. Bilbo purses his lips, and squeezes Thorin’s hand.

“James and I carry some of the same scars,” he says quietly, “and some of those are quite visible. If the person who killed the new John Doe was in fact von Brandt, the autopsy might end up looking quite familiar to you.”

Dáin nods. “I see,” he says. “I will contact DI Stone about obtaining a copy of the autopsy results once they’re available.” A pause. “And if it’s not too much trouble —”

“Yes,” says Bilbo. “I’ll help, if I can. I don’t know if I can find the strength right now, but maybe that will change between now and then.”

“I still think you should look into the lead I gave you,” Thorin adds.

Dáin sighs. “If it satisfies you, Thorin, I’ll go poke around. But I don’t think that’s going to help you.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that he’s got a type,” Thorin points out sourly. “For all we know, he could be trying to pick up another hapless university-aged intern at Gundabad as we speak.”

Bilbo shudders. “Let’s not think too hard on that,” he says.

Thorin heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry.” Bilbo squeezes his hand in reassurance.

“It’s all right. Sometimes I don’t know how James and I escaped while these two unknown men died,” he admits.

Thorin doesn’t say anything. For a minute or two, the compartment is silent.

And then Thorin’s mobile rings. He picks up to find Frerin on the other end.

“Frerin!” he exclaims. Dáin raises an eyebrow at him. Thorin shrugs in reply. “Frerin, what’s —”

“Are you still in Lancashire?” interrupts Frerin.

Thorin’s brows furrow. “We’re on the train back, why?”

“Get to Queen Charlotte's the second you get back, all right?”

Thorin gapes. “...Queen Charlotte’s?” he echoes. “What’s going on?”

“ _What’s going on_ —” There’s a rustling noise, and then Thorin can hear a muffled scream, followed by Fíli demanding to know what’s going on and Víli trying to soothe him.

Thorin’s stomach drops to his feet, and Frerin’s next words only confirm it:

“ _What’s going on_? Thorin, Dee’s in labour!”

* * *

By the time Thorin barges into Dís’s room in the maternity ward, the worst is over and his sister is cradling a tiny roly-poly of an infant in her arms.

“Where’s Víli and Frerin?” Thorin asks, as the rest of them — Balin, Dwalin, Dáin, Bilbo — follow at a much more measurely pace, looking far more apologetic. Somehow Bilbo had managed to find a bouquet of flowers between the lobby and the maternity ward, and this he deposits on a side table next to the other flowers and balloons welcoming the new baby. The entire room seems covered in tokens from other well-wishers — the army of mothers probably accounted for most of them — and Thorin vaguely wonders if the child will grow up with pollen allergies from the sheer number of bouquets gathered around the room.

Dís smiles at Bilbo as he steps away from the table, and then turns her attentions back to Thorin. “Víli took Fíli out for ice-cream, and I guess Frerin tagged along.”

Thorin hums. “Good for them,” he says, as he pulls up a chair. “How are we feeling?”

“Like I just gave birth,” Dís replies baldly.

Thorin chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says with a sigh. “Did you and Víli have fun trashing my place while I was gone?”

“So much fun,” says Dís sarcastically. “We made sure to let Fíli draw on your walls and everything.”

Thorin laughs, and brushes some stray hair from his sister’s face. “Can I look at the new…”

Dís nods, and gently Thorin reaches out to take the child from her, wonder and adoration spreading inside him as he looks on the little pink face in the hospital blankets.

“The doctors assigned Kíli as male,” says Dís, and the bundle moves a little in response in Thorin’s arms.

“Are you going to use masculine pronouns, then?” Thorin asks.

“Unless Kíli decides otherwise, yes,” agrees Dís with a small smile. “Whatever my little ones choose later on in their lives, I’ll support.”

Thorin nods, though a very undignified coo escapes his lips as the newborn shifts, his eyes opening to look up at Thorin. “Hello, Kíli,” murmurs Thorin, smiling at him.

“It’s all right,” adds Dís as Kíli makes a couple protesting noises. “That’s your uncle Thorin.”

“Yes, that’s me,” agrees Thorin quietly. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up to see Bilbo, whose expression is as equally rapt as he looks at the little child in Thorin’s arms.

“Do you want to hold him as well, Bilbo?” Dís asks.

“Oh!” There’s surprise in Bilbo’s expression. “I would be honoured, but I couldn’t possibly —”

“I’d be honoured, too, if you met him,” Dís says.

The sight of Bilbo’s expression as he takes Kíli from Thorin’s arms doesn’t fail to take Thorin’s breath away. The man is enchanted by the newborn, the silliest of grins on his face as he cradles Kíli in his arms. “So adorable,” Bilbo murmurs, as Kíli looks up at him with wide brown eyes.

Kíli starts to whimper, and Bilbo begins to hum soothingly. Thorin’s not really sure what he’s feeling in his chest as he watches this, but he suspects that it’s the direct response to what Bilbo wrote on his chest just yesterday.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, and every part of his body feels like it’s in agreement with this thought.

“Shh, shh, little one, don’t cry. I’m a friend.” Kíli quiets in his arms after a few bars of Bilbo’s humming. Bilbo smiles up at Thorin as he continues to rock the baby, and Thorin can’t help but smile back.

 _I love you, Bilbo Baggins_. _I don’t care how many times I have to repeat this. I love you, I love you, I love you_.


	25. Cotswolds Manor Estate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the last arc of this story (at least, according to my notes). Sorry about the delay; school has been pretty stressful. But now that there's no more school, I should be able to find more time to finish this up!

_Several Weeks Later_

“Careful with the couch!”

Bilbo is standing next to Thorin in the living room of a brick townhouse as they watch two burly men lug a giant white leather sofa through the doorway. Dís is orchestrating the entire affair from the stairwell, while Víli stands behind her holding a carrier containing a slumbering infant.

Thorin has helped them find and buy this townhouse in Chelsea. The rooms are also bigger, which Fíli takes particular delight in, based on the way he’s running everywhere. Currently he’s somewhere upstairs, based on the heavy pound of his feet on the ceiling above the living room.

“Set it down in the living room — yes, my brother can help you there.” Dís exhales the moment the couch clears the doorway. Thorin immediately springs to action, then, directing the moving men in placing the couch opposite the fireplace.

“What a house,” Bilbo remarks.

“It’s going to be wonderful,” agrees Dís. “We won’t be far from Thorin, Fíli can still go to his school, and it’s going to be a completely new start for Kíli.” She pauses. “I mean, even though they fixed up the old house, it just… it wouldn’t have been the same.”

“You can’t go home again,” says Bilbo, nodding. Thorin nudges him then, nodding in the direction of the door — there’s still some boxes to fetch from the lorry. Bilbo follows him out; they’re joined moments later by Víli, who has evidently left the infant carrier with Dís, as well as Dwalin and a couple other bodyguards that Thorin had hired to protect his sister and her family.

“I want to help!” Fíli pipes up, just as one of the moving men hands Thorin a box from the back of the lorry.

“I don’t think any of these boxes are going to be easy for you to carry, kid,” says Thorin, smiling as he hefts his own. “You could take your backpack out of the car.”

“Already did it, Uncle!” protests Fíli. He crosses his arms. “I want to help!”

“Eat your vegetables, then,” Bilbo suggests. “They help you grow up to be big and strong, and then you can help us carry these boxes.”

Fíli sticks his tongue out. “I only eat desserts,” he declares.

“That must be why you’re so scrawny,” jokes Bilbo, ruffling his hair as he hefts his own box with the other arm and starts heading back to the house.

Fíli follows Thorin as he heads in a couple paces behind. “Please, Uncle, I want to help,” he protests.

Thorin sighs, smiling down at his nephew. He seems to be taking the move very well; perhaps it was the prospect of getting a bigger room. “You can help unpack,” he offers. 

Fíli cheers at that. “Do you know which of these boxes are for my room?”

Thorin shrugs. “There’s a lot of boxes, Fee,” he says with a shrug. “But I’m sure your mum or dad knows, if you want to ask them.”

They eventually get all of the boxes in, and the moving men drive off. Balin, Dwalin, and the other bodyguards help get the boxes to their rightful rooms, and Fíli takes great delight in getting in everyone’s way until Thorin decides to remove him from the situation by taking him out for a walk.

He, Bilbo, and Dwalin find themselves sitting with Fíli on a terrace of a small café moments later, Fíli working diligently through an entire bowl of strawberry gelato. Thorin knows he’s going to regret it later, once the sugar kicks in and Fíli starts bouncing off the walls, but currently the iced treat must be a relief against the cruel August heat.

Next to Thorin sits Bilbo, working his way through a cone of vanilla ice cream. Thorin tries his damned best not to stare at him for too long; Bilbo is running his tongue over the ice cream in a way that seems to promise future non-vanilla activities. Even the briefest of glimpses causes more heat to pool in Thorin’s stomach.

After a moment he makes the mistake of meeting Bilbo’s gaze, watching with a rising lump in his throat as Bilbo’s tongue swirls around the frozen treat. A shiver runs down Thorin’s spine as Bilbo smirks at him and presses a kiss to the tip of his ice cream. Thorin has to stifle a moan.

Thankfully, Fíli is too engrossed in his gelato to notice, but Dwalin _does_ notice. He shakes his head at them and rolls his eyes; Thorin feels his cheeks heating up more, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Bilbo’s replying smile is innocent, of course. “It’s a hot day,” he remarks, and Thorin almost puts his head in his hands.

This. This is the man he loves. Life is so wonderfully cruel.

“The temperature’s expected to rise going into the next week,” Dwalin agrees. Bilbo winks at Thorin as his tongue lightly swirls around tip of his ice cream, and Thorin tries to give his best ‘there are children present’ glare. Bilbo’s smile in return is cheeky as hell. Thorin sighs.

“Well, Thorin and I might be able to escape the heat a bit, since we’ll be heading out of London for the Cotswolds in a couple of days,” continues Bilbo, as if he hadn’t just given Thorin an erection in broad daylight in the presence of his own nephew. “Of course, I suppose you’ll be coming with us —”

“No question about it,” snaps Dwalin. “Thorin’s gotten us the tickets and accommodations in Burford.” He pauses. “You say it’s a family reunion?”

“Yup. This year they’ve managed to rent out an entire country estate. There’s a manor house, a barn, and a cottage. That’ll accommodate about twenty-two out of all of the people who are expected to show up; the others either live in the area or have accommodations in town.” Bilbo laughs. “Thorin and I have the cottage to ourselves, which will be fun.”

“Definitely,” agrees Thorin with a grin. Bilbo winks at him, and Dwalin rolls his eyes at both of them.

“Please don’t get too indecent,” he says. “I’m sure there will be children there, too.”

* * *

Every year, a sizeable chunk of the Baggins clan meets up for a couple days in the Cotswolds, renting out most of the inns and bed and breakfasts in the area before converging on someone’s house for the actual family activities. Amongst most things, there’s a formal dinner, a dance, and performances by the children in attendance.

This year, things are going a little differently. Several family members, led by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, have rented out a country estate on whose grounds the entire affair is to be held. And so when Bilbo and Thorin arrive with their bags a couple days after helping Dís move in, they are confronted with a sea of Bagginses, plus members of the families that they’ve all married into.

“I can’t believe we managed to get a secluded cottage on the premises with that amount of guests,” Thorin remarks with a low whistle as they carry their bags through the ornamental garden, past several people with tent poles and banners and a gaggle of laughing children.

“I had Prim pull some strings with Aunt Lobelia,” says Bilbo. Thorin notes that he’s carrying his play bag alongside the duffel. The sight of the bag makes shivers run up and down his spine.

“Is Primula coming?” he asks.

“Later. She and Drogo actually have the double room in the attic of the manor house.” They arrive at their little cottage then. It has a little gate and yard all on its own, with little hedges in the shape of chickens and views of the nearby river.

Thorin can’t help but grin at the sight of the chicken hedges. “For some reason, they remind me of you,” he notes, gesturing to them.

Bilbo rolls his eyes as he unlocks the door to the cottage. It swings in to reveal an elegantly-furnished sitting room and kitchen, with doors leading off to the bedroom and bathroom.

“Ah, here we are. Home sweet home, for a couple of days,” he remarks, gesturing for Thorin to enter.

Thorin hesitates. “You first,” he says.

“We’re not going to squabble over who gets to enter the cottage first,” Bilbo declares. Thorin responds by setting down his bags and sweeping Bilbo up into his arms to carry him across the threshold. Bilbo yelps in surprise, but Thorin sets him down almost as soon as they’re inside.

“There, we both entered,” he says. Bilbo stares at him dumbfounded for a couple of moments, before breaking out into laughter.

“You incurable romantic,” he chuckles, as Thorin then carries their bags in and closes the door behind him.

“I aim to please,” replies Thorin with a grin, before gesturing to the door leading into the bedroom. “Shall we unpack?”

* * *

They eventually make their way back outside to explore the grounds and see what’s been set up. The manor house contains two drawing rooms and a magnificent kitchen, as well as a peacock garden and patio with a hot tub already containing several occupants.

“Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo!” comes several cries, and Thorin hangs back slightly in amusement as Bilbo is tackled by several children, some of which are sopping wet from the hot tub.

“Yes, hello Esmeralda, Poppy, Peony — and is that you, Rufus? And you, Reginald? You’ve grown, Rufus!”

“I’m taller than Reginald now!” Rufus declares, and moves his hand to prove it.

“Are not!” snaps Reginald, sticking his tongue out at him. Bilbo sends a look at Thorin, who hides a smile behind his hand.

“Who is that, Uncle Bilbo?” asks Esmeralda, pointing at Thorin.

“He’s Thorin, my boyfriend,” says Bilbo, and Esmeralda sticks her tongue out in response.

“I can’t believe you have a boyfriend. You have to make kissy faces with him,” she says petulantly, and Bilbo laughs at that, ruffling her hair.

“I like making kissy faces with him. Who knows, maybe you’ll find someone like that, too.” Bilbo straightens up with a grin at Esmeralda’s disgusted look. “It’ll be okay; not everyone likes doing that. You don’t have to like it.”

“Will you be in our play, Uncle Bilbo?” chips in Poppy before Esmeralda can say anything else.

“No, he’s going to be in our play!” butts in Rufus, tugging at Bilbo’s hand. “We’re doing pirates!”

“How many plays can I be in?” asks Bilbo. “And maybe Thorin might want to help out, if I can’t be in two places at once —”

“I think I’ll be more entertained if I watch,” interrupts Thorin. “I haven’t met any of the adults; they might not be so enthusiastic about me joining —”

“Can you be a pirate?” asks Rufus. Thorin looks down at the boy. He has a mop of curly black hair and a splattering of freckles across his tanned nose. “Reginald and I and some of the other boys are going to be pirates versus wizards in our play.”

“What about yours, Poppy?” Bilbo asks. “What kind of play do you have?”

“It’s about a bunny and a dragon,” says Poppy.

Bilbo grins at that. “Can I be the bunny?” he asks.

Poppy nods, just as a group of adults come out from the manor house. One of the women is sporting a kind of headgear that looks more like a flowerpot than a hat to Thorin.

“Aunt Lobelia!” exclaims Bilbo, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Lobelia, the flowerpot-hat woman, is armed with a stack of flyers in her arm, and only briefly embraces Bilbo before shoving a flyer into his hands.

“The itinerary,” she explains.

“Got any time to steal some spoons on there?” Bilbo asks innocently. Lobelia rolls her eyes at him.

“It was one time,” she protests.

“Almost got us kicked out of the hotel, too,” retorts Bilbo. He nods at Thorin. “My partner, Thorin. Thorin, this is my aunt Lobelia.”

“Nice to meet you,” declares Lobelia, ever the image of proper etiquette. She smiles at Thorin and shakes his hand briefly before shoving a schedule into his hands. “Have an itinerary. After the pavilions go up, we’re expecting a formal dinner tomorrow night as one of the first major events of this reunion, followed by performances by the little ones and a dance. Dinner tonight will, therefore, be on your own.”

That is directed to both of them, Thorin’s sure, but Lobelia’s eyes are still boring into his as if she’s sizing him up and running a background check. He nods, and reaches for Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo squeezes it, especially once Lobelia is gone. “She’s a bit of a stickler for propriety,” says Bilbo. “She’s also not used to the idea that I’m not…” he trails off with a chuckle.

“Does she know about your…” Thorin mimes whipping something. Bilbo laughs.

“I think she’d die of a heart attack if I told her,” he replies, and folds up the itinerary. “What do you say to us inviting Balin and Dwalin for a small dinner in the cottage?”

“Takeout? Or are we getting ingredients?” asks Thorin.

Bilbo purses his lips. “Whatever you like,” he says after a moment.

* * *

It’s only after dinner, after Balin and Dwalin have returned to their hotel in Burford, that Bilbo unpacks the contents of his play bag.

He didn’t bring too much, of course; they’re not going to be here for too long, after all — but he has brought restraints and a blindfold, condoms and lube, rope, even a small bag of clothespins, which sends shivers running down Thorin’s spine. But one of the more interesting things that he’s brought is a small box wrapped in the Bag End penis-and-vagina wrapping paper. Thorin raises an eyebrow at it.

“For me?” he asks. Bilbo presses the box into his hands with a grin. “What for?

“I thought I’d get you something for our… oh, how many months has it been already?” Bilbo purses his lips. “Almost six months, I think,” he says after a moment. “Our almost-six-month anniversary.”

“You didn’t have to,” says Thorin, even though he’s excited to find out what Bilbo’s bought for him.

“Well, I did it mostly out of a selfish desire to use it sometime during this reunion,” admits Bilbo. “Just open it.”

And Thorin does, revealing a box containing a slim curved vibrator within a set of blue lace panties. He raises an eyebrow as he takes out both items, looking at Bilbo expectantly. Bilbo grins.

“Remember the remote-controlled vibrator I showed you when we first met?” he asks. Thorin gapes at him.

“You got one of these,” he states, feeling his ears burn, “to use during the family reunion.”

“Well, I thought it’d be fun for us to use it during tomorrow’s formal dinner,” replies Bilbo with a completely innocent expression on his face. Thorin can’t help but chuckle at it, before looking down at the panty and vibrator set in his hands.

“I have to wear these, too?” he asks, gesturing to the knickers — or more accurately, the scrap of blue lace that claims to be underwear. How is any of him going to fit into such a tiny little thing, he’ll never know.

“Well, if you want to,” says Bilbo reasonably, “though of course, I understand if you’re uncomfortable —”

“Will these things even fit me?” wonders Thorin, stretching the lacy material in front of his face. Bilbo giggles.

“I took great care to make sure they would,” he replies with a cheeky grin. Thorin raises an eyebrow at him, before taking a closer look at the vibrator.

“And this is supposed to go inside?” he asks.

Bilbo chuckles. “It won’t go inside you; it’ll rest up against you inside your underwear, and I’ll be controlling it throughout the formal dinner on my phone.”

“Bluetooth?”

“Wi-Fi, actually. I hear the signal’s pretty bad around here.”

Thorin chuckles, dangling the knickers from a finger, hefting the vibrator in his hands. His mind fast-forwards to tomorrow evening, and the thought of this vibrator sitting snugly against his cock and balls, pulsing and vibrating to Bilbo’s command, bringing him to climax even under the nose of the rest of Bilbo’s family. It’s such an intoxicating and exciting notion.  

He comes back to earth to find Bilbo biting his lip, looking worried.

“We don’t have to —” Bilbo begins, but Thorin shakes his head, stepping up to his partner in two strides and kissing him soundly in an attempt to chase away any objections that might be forming in Bilbo’s mind.

“I can’t wait to wear it tomorrow,” he replies. Bilbo laughs at that, sharp and breathless, before kissing Thorin back.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises with a wicked grin, and Thorin grins inwardly as they kiss again.

This. This is the man he loves. Life is so cruelly wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the length of this one; it's kinda just setting up the stage for fun things to happen next chapter ;)


	26. The Captain and Mr Bun

Thorin usually hates formal dinners. Spending hours on a five-course meal while trying not to get any of it onto his suit is just not his idea of a good time. Ever since Bilbo warned him to pack a formal suit for the dinner, Thorin had dreaded putting it on.

But dread turns to excitement the moment he sees Bilbo in a suit. Just the sight of Bilbo adjusting his tie in the mirror makes Thorin want to peel that suit right back off him, and completely forget about dinner altogether. But Bilbo smirks at him in the mirror, and Thorin remembers the press of the vibrator against his cock, and he subsides.

“Good boy,” says Bilbo, a hint of the Consort in his voice as he holds Thorin’s gaze in the mirror, now adjusting his cuffs. He taps at his trouser pocket, where his phone is concealed. Thorin grins sheepishly.

The formal dinner is held in the pavilion. It’s all the adults who had RSVP’d for the occasion; the children apparently have their own table in the barn — which Thorin is, of course, quite grateful for. He is sitting across the table from Bilbo, in between Primula and Bilbo’s distant cousin Saradoc Brandybuck.

At the head of the table is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, accorded the place of honour because of her dedication in taking control of the entire reunion. She is dressed extremely lavishly for the event, Thorin notes, right down to feathers in her hair. It’s ridiculous, of course, but who is he to judge? He’s wearing lacy blue knickers and a vibrator.

Perhaps he’s just had too much experience with stilted family dinners in his youth, but he had come to associate formal dinners with people stabbing at gourmet food in complete silence. And so Thorin is pleasantly surprised to find that the Baggins family’s formal dinner involves a heavy amount of conversation all up and down the table, which, of course, has the added benefit of being ambient noise loud enough to drown out anything Bilbo might be doing to him under the table. Even in the quieter moments, there is still the steady sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi behind Lobelia. Clearly she had spared no expense for this.

The thought of having Bilbo get him off to the backdrop of such a lavish event makes his trousers get just a little tighter. He looks across the table at Bilbo, who meets his gaze with a wicked grin and a wink.

He first feels it during the soup course. It’s a slow, gentle pulsing sensation against his cock. He looks across the table to see Bilbo looking downwards, the light from his phone screen reflected in his glasses.

For all intents and purposes, Bilbo simply looks like he’s going through his texts.

Thorin squirms. Bilbo meets his gaze and grins. The vibration increases a little, coming at a gentle rhythm still. Thorin can’t help but feel it keenly, though; the entire world seems to narrow down to what Bilbo is doing to him with his phone.

“Want a roll, Thorin?” Primula asks, breaking through the blinders of Thorin’s mind. Thorin turns to look at her, wide-eyed. “You feeling okay?”

“Fan-fantastic,” Thorin grinds out. He feels as if his face has caught fire.

Primula chuckles at him. “You’re blushing,” she points out innocently. “What is my cousin doing to you?”

“Shh,” warns Thorin, his voice coming out as an undignified squeak.

Primula winks in reply. “Have fun,” she replies.

Around the salad course, the vibrations begin developing a strange, irregular rhythm. Bilbo must be experimenting again, and even though Thorin’s not sure if he likes the new beat, he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. Bilbo’s in control, as always, and he just has to relax and go along for the ride.

Bilbo does, however, seem to sense that the experiments weren’t a success, and to Thorin’s delight, the vibration pattern goes back to a soft yet steady rhythm.

It’s around the main course, though, that Thorin feels a jolt of sensation that causes his silverware to clatter to the plate. He bites down on his lip, leaning back against his seat and catching Bilbo’s eye. Bilbo’s expression is clearly that of the Consort’s; he’s clearly getting as much enjoyment out of watching Thorin squirm across the table as Thorin is in feeling these waves of intense pleasure against his cock. Thorin wonders, wildly, if Bilbo’s hard just watching him. Does he look as debauched as he feels, all ragged, heaving breaths and bright cheeks?

It takes so much self-control not to come right then and there, and Bilbo isn’t helping. Thorin makes the mistake of catching Bilbo’s eye just as he prepares to eat his roast beef, and thus has to watch, spellbound, as Bilbo slowly raises a forkful of the roast beef to his lips and gently blows across the meat, his tongue lapping over the morsel moments later before he slides the meat into his mouth. Just the sight of those lips closing around the fork causes Thorin to avert his gaze, for fear that he’ll make a mess of himself on his side of the table.

It’s really not fair. Bilbo is having too much fun testing him. But then again, teasing at the limits of Thorin’s patience is probably one of his Consort’s favourite things to do.

The worst bit is that it works every time. He can’t help but be putty in his Consort’s hands; the way his Consort takes control of him in these small, tantalising ways is one of the most exquisite things that Thorin has ever experienced.

The vibration intensifies again during dessert. It’s louder now, but once again the dinner table conversation and the string quartet cover most of it. Thorin rocks a little in his seat, grinding down on the vibrator. All he wants is more, more; at this point he doesn’t even care if he comes in his trousers at the dinner table.

His own phone pings with a message:

**_How are we doing?  
xoxo BB_ **

Thorin groans. It comes out a lot dirtier than it should be, causing Saradoc Brandybuck to look at him in alarm. The vibrations die down briefly, and resume again once Saradoc has turned his attentions elsewhere.

**_You tease. -T_ **

**_Couldn’t have him figuring it out ;)  
xoxo BB_ **

**_I’ll get you back for this -T_ **

**_I look forward to it ;))  
xoxo BB_ **

Thorin sees Bilbo’s cheeky grin from across the table. Of course dessert had to involve whipped frosting, because the way Bilbo is licking it off his fingers is causing Thorin to slip over the edge. Desperately, he tries to think of the unsexiest things he could imagine.

He’s still trying to remind himself of the dullest points of Glóin’s latest financial reports when he looks across the table to see Bilbo’s tongue swirling around the frosting of another bite of dessert.

He comes.

* * *

Thorin manages to change his clothes in time for the plays. Bilbo is nowhere to be found after dinner, which means he manages to wipe down and store the vibrator and toss the soiled panties in the laundry bag without any additional distractions.

Rufus and Reginald quickly grab him once they spy him, and drag him into one of the numerous bedrooms near the lounge in the refurbished barn. The plays are to take place in the lounge, and it promises to be a full house — a beyond-full house, actually, as folks who can’t squeeze into the lounge are being crammed into the upstairs landing instead.

Thorin feels a bit ridiculous, having to put on a Jack Sparrow wig and hat, wear an eyepatch, and carry a plastic cutlass, but the cheers from all the children when they see him in his getup make it worth it. His lines are also minimal for a pirate captain; he only has to yell the word “attack” in his best scary pirate voice, and make a bunch of other growly noises as the pirates and wizards have their little battle, which seems to be the extent of the play. After all, it wouldn’t be a child-penned play if it wasn’t just a little less focused on dialogue and more on having fun.

Soon, they’re all seated in front of the stage area in the lounge (marked out, very thoughtfully, by masking tape). Rufus and Reginald are sitting next to Thorin, reminding him more and more of Fíli with each passing moment with their boisterous excitement about their play and their obvious disdain for the other group’s production. He wonders how his nephews are doing, then, if Fíli is helping out with taking care of Kíli or if he’s just getting underfoot, as four-year-olds can do sometimes. He wonders if Dís is doing all right. Babies are exhausting work, after all.

The performances begin before his mind wanders off too far, and Thorin forces himself to pay attention once more to the stage, where Primula is announcing the acts for tonight. “Mr Bun and the Big Dragon” is first, of course, followed by “Pirates versus Wizards” and then some assorted performances from other family members. There’s applause, of course, and then the first play begins.

And Thorin very nearly chokes at the sight of Bilbo’s costume.

He’d been expecting something ridiculous. Something more along the lines of a big Easter Bunny costume or something. Not this — not a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, not criminally-tight jeans, not a stylish looking waistcoat and pocket watch. The only things that suggest that Bilbo’s a bunny are the ears and the little cotton ball tail taped to his jeans-clad bum.

Thorin wants to know who’s responsible for costuming Mr Bun, so he can thank them.

Mr Bun acts every bit like a stereotypical talking storybook rabbit, always concerned about teatime and being late for appointments. It’s only when he is confronted with a dragon — apparently played by two little Bagginses in bright red, with capes and dinosaur feet slippers — that Mr Bun begins to lose his propriety, even going so far as to grab a wooden sword and fight against the dragon. The conclusion of this battle, of course, is that Mr Bun is triumphant, and he gets to dance with all the bunnies in a field of flowers and live happily ever after.

Thorin has to admit, it was a good production. And when he looks over at Primula when it’s his group’s turn to go on stage, she winks at him.

Bilbo finds him after all of the performances are done, grinning broadly as he enfolds him in a hug. “You did well, Captain Jack Sparrow,” he quips, and Thorin groans, tossing off the wig and eyepatch. Bilbo laughs, fetching the hat again and setting it on his head.

“I had a remarkable lack of lines for being Captain Jack Sparrow,” Thorin remarks. “How did you manage to learn all of yours in one day?”

“I didn’t,” says Bilbo with a chuckle. “I ad-libbed most of mine.” He hasn’t changed out of his costume, either. Thorin can still feel the cotton ball tail taped to his ass. Not that he’s protesting its presence, of course.

“Who came up with your costume anyway, Mr Bun?” he asks.

“You can thank Prim. Poppy had originally tried to put me in an Easter Bunny costume, but Prim then showed her pictures of the White Rabbit from _Alice in Wonderland_ , and she deferred to Prim’s judgement.”

Thorin snorts. “She must have showed her some very specific pictures of the White Rabbit. I don’t think the animated version is half as attractive as you are right now.”

Bilbo giggles. All around them, music is starting to play from the speakers, and the chairs are being carried off to make room for dancing. The little kids are all either dancing in a circle or gathered off to the side with various electronic devices.

Thorin brings Bilbo closer to him, and they begin to sway to the music.

“You’re smirking,” he accuses after a moment. “I can feel it.”

“Just imagining the look on Lobelia’s face at the sight of us,” replies Bilbo innocently. Thorin chuckles.

“We’re not even doing anything indecent,” he murmurs. “As opposed to what happened at dinner.”

“Was that fun?” Bilbo asks, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Very,” agrees Thorin. “Except the part where I had to duck out of dessert and cheeses because you made me come in my trousers again.”

Bilbo snickers. Thorin’s eyes narrow. Bilbo’s smirk only grows broader at that. “Would you want to wear it again sometime in the future?” he asks after a moment.

“Oh definitely,” agrees Thorin. He closes his eyes then, breathing in Bilbo’s scent. They’re both a little sweaty from their respective costumes, but that doesn’t detract Thorin one bit — in fact, it reminds him of their most intense scenes, of their wildest moments. It reminds him of the way Bilbo grabs his hair in the throes of passion, reminds him of the heat of wax being dripped down his body and the sensation of Bilbo’s flogger across his shoulder and buttocks.

“Oh god,” Bilbo murmurs in Thorin’s ear, and Thorin comes back to reality briefly to realise that Bilbo’s hard against his leg, that his own trousers are tight again, that there are far too many people in the room.

“What is it?” he asks, his own voice hoarse.

Bilbo’s eyes are impossibly dark when he looks at him. “Let’s get out of here,” he insists.

* * *

They slip out of the dance as quietly as possible, but when they’re out in the warm summer night, Thorin swings Bilbo up over his shoulder, eliciting a yelp of delighted surprise.

“Where are we going, Captain?” his partner demands through his giggles as Thorin sets off for the cottage.

“Oh, my captive Mr Bun, don’t you know?” Thorin wonders, an eyebrow quirked and a smirk tugging at his mouth. Two can play at the tease game. “We’re going back to our room.”

Bilbo’s erection presses against him almost insistently, a promise and a reminder. “And what are you going to do to me there?” wonders Bilbo, and he has the gall to inject some blushing innocence into his voice. Thorin almost laughs.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could top tonight,” he admits, and gets a delighted wriggle in response.

“I look forward to your efforts,” teases Bilbo, causing Thorin to smack him lightly across his bum. “Oh come on, you call that a spank?”

“Don’t toy with me,” warns Thorin, though he’s grinning too heavily for it to be much of a threat. The worst part is that Bilbo knows, and he wriggles in Thorin’s arm again, almost causing Thorin to drop him as he fumbles for his keys with his other hand.

Once inside the bedroom of their little cottage, Thorin deposits Bilbo onto the bed, and Bilbo kicks off his shoes and socks and shimmies up to lie against the pillows, grinning at him still as Thorin closes the doors behind him. He clambers onto the bed then, looming over Bilbo before leaning in for a kiss, cupping his partner’s cheeks as he does so. It’s soft, heady, full of the promise for more. Bilbo’s slightly breathless gasp as they break apart sends another jolt of arousal through Thorin’s body.

Bilbo’s waistcoat and shirt are quickly discarded, followed by his jeans, which must come as a relief to him. Thorin grins at the sight in front of him when he’s done; Bilbo looks positively delectable in just a pair of white briefs that match his bunny ears.

God, Thorin wants to tie him up; he wants to restrain Bilbo to the bed and watch him squirm in helplessness as Thorin takes him. But the restraints are measured to Thorin’s wrists and ankles, and it’d be a pain to readjust later. The rope will have to do.

“Your wrists,” he says. Bilbo offers them with a grin. Thorin fetches the rope from Bilbo’s play bag on the nightstand, and slowly begins to wrap Bilbo’s wrists with it.

“Remember what we practised,” Bilbo murmurs. Thorin nods, tongue poking out between his teeth as he brings the rope up and starts wrapping it around the loops he’d just created.

“Are these too tight?” he asks.

Bilbo shakes his head. “You’re the pirate captain here,” he points out. Thorin huffs, and then brings Bilbo’s bound wrists up and ties the loose ends of the rope to the headboard, giving his knots a couple experimental tugs as he does so.

“How’s this feeling?” he asks quietly.

“Not bad,” replies Bilbo.

“You’re not going to — “

“Not going to panic, not going to escape,” promises Bilbo. “And our safewords are the traffic lights and ‘Smaug’.”

“Good,” says Thorin.

It’s not the first time he’s thanked whatever higher power that must exist above for bringing Bilbo into his life. Not everyone is as fortunate as him to have someone so willing to let him fly, to let him explore. It’s been so long since he last topped someone; it’s the first time he’s actually going to top Bilbo, and though the usual nervousness is there there is also a heady amount of excitement and anticipation rolling through him, as intoxicating as the dessert attained after a long dinner.

“Do you always feel like this when you top me?” he asks after a moment.

“I can’t read your mind, Thorin,” Bilbo reminds him. “How are you feeling?”

“Excited,” says Thorin.

“Oh.” Bilbo grins, his cheeks tinted an attractive shade of pink. “Yes. That’s what I feel with you, all the time. In a scene, outside a scene — every moment.”

Thorin kisses him then, the gentleness of the action turning hotter and headier when Bilbo nips lightly at his bottom lip. He bites back, before kissing a wet trail down Bilbo’s neck, savouring the soft groans that Bilbo gives every time Thorin’s lips meet his skin.

His lips move farther down Bilbo’s body next, a slow, wet trail down Bilbo’s chest with brief detours to kiss each of his nipples. He then moves down Bilbo’s belly, burying his nose into the delightful softness there, pressing kisses to Bilbo’s navel that reward him with squirms and giggles.

The giggles become breathy gasps when Thorin moves even lower, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Bilbo’s briefs and very slowly peeling them off his hips. Bilbo cries aloud at the first press of Thorin’s lips against the tip of his erection, causing Thorin to chuckle.

“Needy little bunny,” he remarks.

“Oh, get to it already,” Bilbo grumbles, his cheeks turning bright red.

“And you say I’m impatient.”

“Is this payback for dinner?”

Thorin considers it. “Yes,” he says after a moment, and then takes Bilbo into his mouth. Bilbo curses at that, pulling at his bonds as Thorin begins to move along his cock. For a moment, Thorin wonders how much they’ll be charged if Bilbo’s tugging breaks something, but he puts it out of his mind as soon as he can, preferring instead to still Bilbo’s writhing by pressing him firmly down on the bed with his hands, holding him in place.

When Bilbo comes undone, Thorin has to think about his financial reports to prevent himself from following; just the sight of Bilbo’s flushed cheeks and heaving chest is driving him wild. He wipes his face and leans up to kiss Bilbo again, languid and gentle.

“Spread your legs,” he instructs, and Bilbo obeys. Thorin swallows at the sight; Bilbo’s still panting heavily, with his wrists bound to the headboard behind him and his briefs only half off his legs.

The bunny ears are almost falling off now. Thorin puts them back in place with a grin.

“You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling Bilbo’s briefs off him properly before leaning back to discard his own clothes. Bilbo closes his eyes and mewls, his breathing slowing back to normal. Thorin briefly wonders what subspace feels like for him.

He pulls on a glove from the play bag then and slicks up his fingers, pressing one hesitantly at Bilbo’s hole while his other hand starts stroking Bilbo’s cock again. Bilbo gives a soft gasp at that; he takes a couple deep breaths as if trying to relax his body, and Thorin’s finger slips inside.

Bilbo cries out.

Thorin’s fingers pause. “Are we — “

“Green,” Bilbo pants. “It’s a bit odd because I haven’t done this in a while. Green, Thorin, _please_!”

Encouraged, Thorin begins to move his finger around, sliding in and out slowly and savouring his partner’s soft pants and gasps. Bilbo’s breathing is steady, his exhalations coming in low moans that make Thorin’s own cock twitch in impatience. God, what wouldn’t he give to just bury his cock inside the tantalising heat that he’s currently feeling with his fingers!

But no, patience. It will be worth it in the end.

He adds another finger then, scissoring them, eliciting more low moans. Bilbo’s eyes have closed now; the heaving of his chest and the hardening of his cock tell Thorin that he’s aroused again. He hesitates, briefly, but Bilbo opens his eyes and insists that he’s ready, and Thorin doesn’t need more encouragement than that.

He’s never rolled a condom onto himself as fast as he does now, and within moments he’s pushing into Bilbo, and Bilbo’s rewarding him with more of those delightful low moans, bunny ears going askew on his head once more as they begin to move together. And god, Thorin wants to take it slow, wants to be as gentle as he can, but even now Bilbo seems to be testing his self control, because even though one part of him wants to treat Bilbo like a princess, the other part wants to fuck him into the bed.

And it’s obvious what side Bilbo wants more, with the insistent snap and roll of his hips in response to Thorin’s thrusts. “Harder,” growls his partner. “Come on, is this the best you can do?”

A growl rips its way out of Thorin at that, and he lets loose, hands gripping at Bilbo’s hips, holding him in place as he thrusts harder. Bilbo cries out at that, pulling at his bonds, his body moving easily with Thorin’s. Thorin notices a couple stray tears rolling down Bilbo’s face at the sudden new harshness, but Bilbo bites his lips when he tries to kiss him.

“Don’t you dare go slow,” Bilbo growls when they break apart, and, encouraged, Thorin continues, losing himself in the sensation of Bilbo’s tight heat around his cock, in the softness of Bilbo’s body pressed beneath him, in his cries and moans with each new thrust. He’s missed the feelings associated with topping; he’s missed the rush of being in control, of having someone respond to him in such wonderful ways.

The funny thing is, he probably wouldn’t have missed it as much before. Knowing that Bilbo is perfectly capable of returning the favor makes this moment all the better. Knowing that Bilbo wants to fly with him, that Bilbo trusts him enough to cede control to him makes Thorin want to prove himself worthy of this gift.

And so, he gives Bilbo exactly what he wants, savouring the arch of his partner’s body against his own. Bilbo comes for a second time that night, and Thorin quickly follows, pulling out with just the faintest hint of reluctance.

He cleans them both off and then unties Bilbo, who massages his wrists the moment the ties are undone.

“Sorry,” Thorin says, nodding at Bilbo’s wrists.

“It’s just all the pulling,” says Bilbo. “A little chafing. Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”

He kisses Thorin gently then, and Thorin smiles a little into the kiss as he does so.

“Besides that, how are we…” he trails off, tilting Bilbo’s head up and looking into his eyes. Bilbo purses his lips, as if pondering the half-spoken question.

“It wasn’t bad for a first time,” he says. “Pretty good, actually.”

Thorin nods.

“Feels good to know you’ve still got it, hm?” Bilbo’s smile is impish.

“Definitely,” agrees Thorin. He takes the comforter on the bed and drapes it across Bilbo’s shoulder, enfolding him in a hug. “You were amazing. Thank you.”

He feels Bilbo smiling into his shoulder. Moments later, the blond pulls away to look at him.

“What do you think,” he says quietly, “about doing a scene with you as the Dominant, then?”

Thorin’s mouth goes a little dry. Immediately he remembers his fantasies: Bilbo tied up, gagged, blindfolded, a writhing mess of muffled moans beneath him. What wouldn’t he do —

“Yes,” he says. “I’d love to.”


	27. Playing at the Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for edgeplay (specifically knifeplay) and consentplay! I tried to make it palatable and obvious that it's a scene and they'd actually consented, but please, read at your own discretion.

The morning of the last day of the Baggins family reunion is mostly a flurry of people and suitcases, a whirlwind of pavilions being dismantled and banners being taken down. The children are once again running around, the older ones on errands and the younger ones getting underfoot. Poppy and Rufus and a couple of others are playing a game that seems to be a combination of hide-and-seek and tag designed to be as intrusive as possible with the packing.

Bilbo and Thorin have been helping with loading tables and chairs, and Thorin can’t help but grin every time he catches Saradoc Brandybuck staring at him oddly. Fortunately, Saradoc isn’t the only other person helping — Drogo is there, too, and as he and Thorin load a table into the back of the catering lorry, Drogo mentions that Primula wants to talk to him.

Thorin nods, and helps Paladin Took with a couple more of the chairs before slipping away to find Primula.

He finds her in the kitchen in the barn, surrounded by piles and piles of suitcases. Some of the children’s bags are overflowing, their zippers slipping open to reveal hastily stuffed books and clothes and pillows. Primula is bent over one of the bags, carefully removing silverware from its depths.

She looks up when Thorin enters, and gestures to the bag. “Lobelia convinced her son Otho to hide some of the silverware in his bag. I’m just returning stolen goods.”

“Bilbo mentioned that she’d nearly gotten kicked out of a hotel for that,” remarks Thorin.

Primula laughs. “I remember that. Of all of the quirks one could develop, of course our dear Aunt Lobelia would have a penchant for collecting stolen spoons. It’s not like her house is lacking in its own silverware, after all.”

“She doesn’t seem like the kleptomaniacal type,” says Thorin.

Primula rolls her eyes. “Oh, believe me, if you knew where she got those feathers that she had in her hair for the dinner —” she begins, but then cuts off, shaking her head. Instead, she puts the stolen silverware back into its drawer and takes a seat at one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

Thorin follows her lead, fiddling idly with one of the placemats. “You called for me?” he asks, getting to the point.

Primula nods, tracing her finger along the edge of the plate on the placemat. “I just wanted to know if there’s been anything new in the investigation.”

“The investigation,” repeats Thorin.

“I asked you to help me find evidence of Smaug von Brandt’s wrongdoings.”

Thorin’s fingers trace the outline of his phone, a replacement for the one that Dáin had confiscated. “I know someone in the Yard. He’s working on it,” he says.

“But do you have anything?” demands Primula. “Anything at all?”

Thorin purses his lips. For a long while, there is nothing but silence. What does he tell her? What can he tell her and trust she will keep to herself before anything official is done?

The moment is broken when Primula deflates, seemingly convinced that Thorin has nothing to report. She rises to leave, but Thorin reaches for her hand, stalling her.

“Wait,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow, but retakes her seat. Thorin clears his throat.

“There was another murder up in Lancashire,” he says after a moment. “It was near property owned by the von Brandts, and there’s a cold case on file with the Met from several years ago that had very similar characteristics.”

Primula swallows. “Lancashire,” she repeats.

Thorin nods.

“Bilbo had mentioned it to me before,” Primula says quietly. “He was never sure if it was a reward or a punishment, being taken up to Lancashire.” She laughs. “Maybe the latter, given the…”

“Why does he do it up there?” wonders Thorin, in almost sick fascination. He fiddles with the edge of the plate, not looking at Primula. He hears her sigh.

“Seclusion. Lack of proper resources for an investigation.” She reaches out, squeezes his hand in a way oddly reminiscent of Bilbo. “I’m just glad von Brandt never made good on his threat to do so.”

Thorin tries to picture a world without Bilbo. He finds it almost impossible to even consider the notion.

“I’m glad, too,” he says after a moment, looking at Primula, who smiles at him.

“I have some news for you as well,” she says after a moment. “A man named Gandalf Grey came to visit me at the hospital and told me to pass on a message to you.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. Gandalf wanted to contact him, but indirectly? “If he visits you again, tell him I said thank you for the call,” he says.

“I’m going to assume that’s some sort of code between the two of you for something,” Primula says, drumming her fingers against the kitchen counter. She’s really coming along, Thorin notes; the swell of her belly is now more noticeable.  

“What’s the message?” he asks.

Primula purses her lips. “To be at the next munch.”

Thorin looks sharply at her. She shrugs.

“He didn’t say anything else. I guess something will be happening at the next munch that he wants you to be there for.” Primula pauses, and squeezes his hand again as she rises to her feet. “Keep me updated,” she says, and Thorin nods at her as she leaves the kitchen.

He, too, rises to leave, but he finds his way out the kitchen blocked by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She is impeccably dressed once more, though Thorin has the sneaking suspicion that the scarf wound around her neck had been ‘borrowed’ from another family member. He could have sworn he had seen Rosa Baggins, another one of Bilbo’s numerous cousins, wearing the exact same scarf the first day.

“Hello, Ms Sackville-Baggins,” says Thorin, trying to move around her, but she moves to block him as well. Though Thorin towers her by at least two heads, she continues to glare up at him, defiance in her eyes, and Thorin wonders how much trouble he’s in.

Leave it to a Baggins to make him feel like he’s done something wrong. Though of course Lobelia’s anger is of a different stripe from the Consort’s, and Thorin is far from excited about the promise of her chastisement.

“Mr Oakenshield,” says Lobelia, her brows knitted in severity. “Please, take a seat.”

Thorin finds himself stumbling back onto the stool he had barely vacated. Lobelia folds her arms, appraising him. Thorin swallows.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” he asks, in his best Managing Director voice. Lobelia falters somewhat, but her own professional mask is back minutes later, and she nods.

“Concerning my nephew Bilbo,” she begins, and then purses her lips, her high heels sounding a steady metronomic beat against the tiled floor. “How long have the two of you been…?”

“Almost six months,” says Thorin.

She nods, once. “He has been in similar relationships before for far longer, and to his detriment.”

Thorin frowns. “You —”

“Know about the affair he has had with Smaug von Brandt,” says Lobelia, growling the name through gritted teeth. Thorin finds himself liking her more for it. “If you are using my nephew to similar ends —”

“No!” The word rips out of Thorin’s throat before his brain can temper it. He takes a couple deep breaths as Lobelia takes a step back from him, wide-eyed. He unclenches his hands, and continues in a calmer tone. “I care about your nephew, Ms Sackville-Baggins. I would never hurt him.”

“Good.” Lobelia’s eyes glint like steel. “My nephew believes me to be too entrenched in traditional values, but I have, recently, come to understand that it is the happiness of the individuals involved that matters more than what gender they are. If you make him happy, then there is nothing more that you have to fear from me.”

 _How is she capable of making her blessing sound more like a threat?_ Thorin wonders wildly. His voice is hoarse when he says, “I understand,” but she seems to take it in stride.

“Good.” Lobelia takes another step away from him. “I hope to see you again next year, Mr Oakenshield.”

With that, she leaves as well, but not before slipping one of the spoons on the counter into her pocket.

* * *

**_Remember what we’ve practised.  
_** **_xoxo BB_ **

Thorin leans against the door of the bedroom, taking several deep breaths. Tonight the blue robe of the Consort is draped around his shoulders. Underneath, he wears nothing but tight black trousers, and for some reason it makes him feel all the more exposed.

This is his first time as the Dominant, and it scares him like nothing else.

He’s spent so much time practising in the days leading up to this scene. One of the chairs in the often-disused dining area has spent the better part of an evening on its side as he practised his knots. He’s gone through their contract over and over, trying to calm himself down, trying to reassure himself that he’s not going to hurt Bilbo. Bilbo’s made it clear already that he trusts Thorin, so why does it feel like he’s just standing at a ledge waiting to fall?

**_What are our safewords? -T_ **

On the other side of the bedroom door would be Bilbo, waiting for him in the outfit Thorin had instructed him to wear. A simple cotton shirt, brown trousers, braces — he would look every bit the unassuming young man that had been selected by the King to become his consort. Just the mental image makes something warm shoot down Thorin’s spine.

He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, taking out a one-sided knife from the folds of his robes. They’d agreed that he could use it during the scene, especially for cutting fabric, but should blood be drawn, everything ends immediately. The metal feels cold and menacing in his shaking hands. Nervousness curls in the pit of his stomach at its cold gleam.

His mobile pings with another message.

 _**Smaug and the traffic lights.** _  
_**Come and get me, Your Majesty ;)** _  
_**xoxo BB** _

Thorin smiles, takes one more deep breath, puts the knife away again, and opens the door to enter the room.

His consort is there, indeed, sitting on the bed fiddling with his braces, fidgeting with nerves. He looks up, eyes wide and cheeks rosy, and Thorin falters in his steps towards him as a result. He quickly regains himself, however, coming to a stop at the bed in front of his consort.

“Your Majesty,” says his consort quietly, demurely. “I couldn’t possibly —”

Thorin reaches out, tilting his chin up with a hand. “You know the law, my pet,” he drawls. “As your King, I have the right to pick anyone I wish for my consort. I have selected you.”

“But — Your Majesty —”

“Are you objecting to an honour that so many maidens in this kingdom have vied for?”

His consort’s mouth works uselessly, forming half-considered words before finally falling shut. Slowly, he shakes his head. Thorin grins ferally in response, and takes a step back.

“It is the custom of Erebor to formalise an engagement with the act of physical love,” he says, his expression dark as he sizes up his consort. The other merely sits there, looking up at him through his lashes like he is the embodiment of innocence.

Oh, reality always seems to put his imagination to shame. Just the way his consort bites his lip sends bolts of heat through Thorin’s body.

“I am aware of this, sir,” says his consort, his gaze casted down once more as his cheeks flare with colour. Thorin has to take a moment to compose himself again; Bilbo is really doing this too perfectly.

“Then you must also be aware of the fact that you now belong to me,” he growls, trying not to laugh or cringe (or both) at the lines coming out of his mouth. “Whether you want it or not, I have selected you, and now I only have to claim you in the eyes of the law.”

His consort fidgets with his braces again, biting his lip as he looks up at Thorin again. “I’ve never done this before,” he says quietly, cheeks flushing rosy in the dim light of the bedroom. “I’ve… I’ve only ever read about lovemaking.”

Thorin snarls, because otherwise he’d be doubled over laughing at the notion of his partner being inexperienced at sex. “Two things, my pet,” he says, advancing towards his consort again and forcibly pressing him down onto the bed. His consort’s eyes are huge. “First, I do not make love. I fuck.”

A tentative nod.

“And second, your inexperience is exactly what I have been looking for.”

“...Looking for?” breathes his consort.

“Yes,” snaps Thorin, and claims his lips.

His consort struggles, trying at first to push him off, but eventually he submits, mouth opening in a low moan into the kiss. His hands move to rest themselves on Thorin’s chest, but with a growl Thorin seizes his consort’s hands and pins them above his head. He presses their bodies closer as his tongue plunders his consort’s mouth, savouring the little surprised noises the other man makes in response.

(When he squeezes his consort’s hand twice, he gets two squeezes back, and has to resist the urge to grin stupidly at the reassurance.)

Then there’s a jolt of pain as his consort bites _his_ lip, and Thorin’s first instinct is to spring away, gingerly rubbing at the bitten area. A strange triumphant gleam shines in his consort’s eyes, though, and that does it.

“You think your struggling will deter me?” Thorin growls, trying not to smile at the mischievous smirk barely tugging at the corners of his consort’s delectable mouth, the only part of him breaking role.

“I —”

Thorin moves in, one hand grabbing at his consort’s hair to yank his face upwards. His other hand takes out the knife, showing it to his consort. “Let’s make this clear,” he murmurs in his consort’s ear, the dull side of the knife carefully tracing the curve of his jaw. “I want you. As the King, what I want, I get. You can resist me all you want, but it is not going to deter me from taking what is mine.”

His consort gulps, his cheeks flushing at that. “Your Majesty,” he breathes.

Thorin’s response is to untuck his consort’s shirt from his trousers and cut the material from the bottom up with the knife. He is rewarded with a soft gasp; moments later, his consort’s chest is exposed to him. Thorin licks his lips at the sight, eyes feasting on the trail of tawny curls disappearing into his consort’s trousers.

He’s almost delirious with impatience. Hastily setting down the knife on the nightstand, Thorin fumbles with the fly of his consort’s trousers; his hands roughly shove what’s left of his consort’s clothing off his body, baring him completely to the dim light of the bedroom. His consort gazes back, defiance in his eyes but roses in his cheeks, his arms moving to cover himself up, though the gesture at this point seems almost to be a mere formality.

“All of the gold in Erebor cannot compare to the gold of your hair,” Thorin murmurs as he shifts onto the bed, his consort scrambling back towards the pillows like a frightened hare. “The greatest of the King’s jewels cannot compare to your eyes, the glow in your skin. I will have you, I will possess you, I will make you mine.”

“Is that what you’ve said to all of your other lovers?” his consort wonders.

“No,” says Thorin.

“Seems more like lovemaking to me.” His consort bites his lip. Thorin growls.

“Do not provoke me like that.”

“Like what?” Another bite. His consort’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips. Thorin takes a couple deep breaths. It would be perfectly within character to ravish his consort now, and yet he hesitates, unsure of whether or not he’s hurting him.

“The way you bite your lip. The way you lick it. I will not be held responsible for my actions if you do it again.”

He does it again. Thorin makes good on his threat, moving in to kiss him again. His consort bites Thorin’s lips, but it no longer deters him; his consort’s hands shove at him, trying to push him off, and he grabs them and pins them down.

(He also squeezes them twice, and feels a smirk curving along his consort’s lips in reply. Two squeezes back.

“Don’t you dare stop.” He hears it as a whisper against his ear when they break apart. He swallows, and nods.)

He is rewarded by a wanton moan, ripped almost unexpectedly from his consort’s throat when Thorin bites down on his lips. Soothing the bite with a softer kiss, Thorin lets go of his consort’s wrists briefly, so that he can reach for the rope on the nightstand.

Moments later, Bilbo’s wrists are bound and tied to the headboard, and Thorin pauses for a moment to survey his handiwork before reaching for the knife once more, showing it to his consort again.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and his consort obeys him; the thrill of that little submission makes his trousers feel even tighter than before. He sets down the one-edge knife and picks up a blindfold, wrapping it around his consort’s head before he reaches into the folds of his robes and pulls out a blunted butter knife.

When he presses the new knife against his consort’s skin; the other man jumps and shudders at the feeling of the metal. Thorin hesitates briefly, but his consort murmurs ‘green’ at him, and he continues. He glides the knife along his consort’s jaw once more, watching the blade catch the dim light, before slipping it down along the expanse of his consort’s chest, delighting in the soft shiver of blond hair against silvery metal.

“Now I have you where I want you,” he murmurs against the shell of his consort’s ear. In reply, he feels a delighted shudder, and he smirks, running his tongue along the curve of the ear. “If you misbehave —”

He lightly runs the blade along the curve of his consort’s throat. There’s a shuddering gasp at that; Thorin reaches up to squeeze his consort’s hands, and gets two squeezes in reply.

“Are we understood?” he asks quietly.

“Understood,” whimpers his consort, and tilts his head back to present his throat.

It’s in this moment that Thorin understands, that he recognises just how beautiful the gift of Bilbo’s submission is. Even in this one scene, even under the guise of a conquering King breaking in his consort, he sees the trust Bilbo has in him to let him do all of this to him, and it makes him want to stop everything and take Bilbo into his arms and tell him that he loves him, that he understands, that he will serve him for as long as Bilbo will let him.

But the King is calling. The King is demanding, dark, driven. Thorin lets it seep into him once more, and when he kisses his consort again it is with the King’s dark demands, and the consort returns in kind, nipping at his lips once more and moaning into the space between their mouths.

Thorin sets down the knife entirely and undoes his own trousers. His consort freezes at the first press of Thorin’s cock against his leg, and Thorin can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips.

“It’s… it’s so _big_ ,” whimpers his consort. “It won’t fit!”

“It will,” insists Thorin, reaching for the lube and the gloves on the nightstand. “You are going to learn to take me within you, my pet. All of me.”

“I couldn’t —” begins his consort, but the rest of his sentence is drowned out in a cry as one of Thorin’s fingers press into him. “Your Majesty!”

“Let me amend my previous statement: you _will_ learn,” insists Thorin, biting down on the shell of his consort’s ear. He is rewarded with another cry, which only increases in volume as he crooks his finger, brushing against his consort’s prostate.

He adds another finger then, stroking once more, watching the way his consort writhes under his hand. The King’s power is intoxicating — to know that it is him and him alone who is making his consort feels this sensations makes him even harder. He’s impatient to feel his consort around him once more, to feel that delicious heat engulfing his cock, to lose himself in the softness of his consort’s body.

“God, you feel so good,” he growls in his consort’s ear, fingers slipping out as he rolls on a condom and lines his cock up to his consort’s slicked hole. “I can’t wait any longer; I need to be inside you. I _must_ claim you.”

“N —” begins his consort, but Thorin silences him with a hard, bruising kiss as he thrusts into him in one swift motion. His consort screams into his mouth, straining against his bonds.

(“How are we doing?” Thorin whispers.

“Green,” Bilbo pants into his ear, before crying aloud again.)

The King does not stop, does not slow down. He takes what he wants, and his consort is helpless to stop him in this mad desire. Thorin’s nails dig crescents into his consort’s hips as he fucks him, all hard and greedy and possessive. There is no jewel in the hoard more beautiful than his consort, soft skin already bruising from the marks Thorin leaves on him. The feeling of ownership, of dominion, courses headily through him with each thrust and each answering cry.

His consort climaxes first with a thoroughly debauched moan. Thorin runs a finger through the strands of come decorating his consort’s chest as he reaches out to untie his consort’s blindfold. As the silken material falls away, Thorin holds his consort’s gaze as he slowly licks the come from his finger.

“Mine,” says Thorin simply.

It’s his consort’s replying moan that undoes him.

He’s sure to wrap Bilbo in a blanket afterwards, taking his wrists and applying a soothing lotion to where the rope has chafed his skin. Bilbo’s voice is hoarse from his cries; Thorin offers him some water, and wipes away any tears that may have fallen during the scene.

They say nothing for a while longer, content to hold and to be held. Thorin presses his forehead against Bilbo’s, his thumbs tracing soothing circles against the sides of his partner’s head.

Bilbo exhales, long and slow, and smiles.

* * *

They’re sipping tea across from each other at Hulwulzahar, with two notebooks on the table. Bilbo takes his time to enjoy the aroma of his tea, running a finger along the rim of the cup before setting it down. Thorin swallows heavily, and reaches across the table to take a biscuit.

Bilbo sets down his teacup and pushes his notebook towards Thorin.

“There’s going to be a munch this Sunday,” he says. “Same time, same place.”

“I’ll be there,” says Thorin, Primula’s message echoing in his ears.

Bilbo nods, and then gestures to the notebook. “Shall we read?” he asks. Thorin nods, pushing his own notebook towards Bilbo.

Bilbo’s handwriting is thin and spidery, surprisingly prone to flourishes and loops. Thorin smiles a little, fingers tracing the letters as he reads the entries.

There is love in these little words, love and trust and some pleasant surprises. Bilbo chronicles how nice it felt to trust Thorin, to cede the control that had kept him safe all these years. And though his reservations about the knifeplay had been strong, resounding from a very deep part of him still fearful of the knife that carved a scar into his shoulder, he had found the experience with Thorin not as terrifying as he had feared it would be.

_There is fear, and there is fearplay, and the latter functions on the knowledge that deep down, I am safe._

“I’ve never felt so scared and yet so safe,” Bilbo remarks suddenly. Thorin looks up to see his partner’s smile. “You gave me a rush that I’ve never felt before.”

“I was terrified I would hurt you,” admits Thorin, looking down at the notebook. “I was ready to safeword, or to hear it from you, throughout the entire scene.”

“But are you glad it ended the way it did?” asks Bilbo.

“Are you?” wonders Thorin.

Bilbo purses his lips. “I know there is no shame in safewording,” he says, “and yet I am still unlearning how to ‘grin and bear it’, so to speak.”

“Did you want to —”

“No.” Bilbo raises a finger, stalling Thorin. “I liked that we came to the proper conclusion for the scene, the one we’d agreed upon. But I just wanted you to know, for future reference —”

“You want me to be Dom again.”

“You never know.”

Thorin laughs a little, feeling the uneasy curling in his stomach lessen a little. “I don’t think I would like being the Dom so frequently. I’m Managing Director of Erebor because it is my job, my duty to the family business. Don’t make what we have an obligation as well.”

“I understand,” says Bilbo, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I just wanted you to know that if we were ever to have another scene in which you were the Dom — even if it’s just briefly — you may need to observe me closely to see if I’m actually distressed. I don’t —” he pauses, sighs. “Like I said, I’m still unlearning things.”

 _Not as fine and as unaffected as he’d like to be_ , Thorin thinks, but he says nothing, continuing to flick through the notebook. Finally, he hears the sound of his own notebook being closed, and the scratch of wire against the table as Bilbo pushes it back towards him.

“Thank you for this,” Bilbo says. Thorin nods, hands Bilbo’s notebook back to him.

“It’s nice to know what you really think,” he says with a small smile.

“Please, more lube next time,” quips Bilbo, winking. Thorin chuckles, and takes a sip of tea.

“Where to from here?” he asks. “What will we try next?”

“What do _you_ want to try next?” counters Bilbo. “There’s so much out there — we haven’t tried the Japanese rope bondage, which I hear is pretty cerebral, and I haven’t seen you in lingerie yet, either, and I’m sure there’s plenty of other scenarios and fantasies that you’d want to see acted out.”

Thorin considers it for a moment, and then says, “I want to see your playroom.”

That seems to catch Bilbo by surprise for a moment. He fiddles uneasily with the handle of his teacup, and then swallows, looking up at Thorin.

“Are you sure about it?”

Thorin nods. “You’ve become an integral part of my life. I want to become a part of yours.”

“You are, though,” Bilbo points out.

“I know it sounds superficial, but —” Thorin purses his lips, drums his finger against the counter. He sighs after a moment, unable to phrase it any other way. “I have never seen what it’s like in your world when I’m not there. Your place. Your bedroom. Your tea-set, and kitchen counter, and bathroom sink. All the plants that you’ve yet to move into my flat.”

Bilbo laughs a little at that. “Must’ve slipped my mind,” he remarks.

“I want to see your playroom,” repeats Thorin.

“I’ll think about it,” agrees Bilbo.

* * *

The next munch finds them in a private room at the Green Dragon. Bard and Thranduil are there, as well as Casey and their partner, Galadriel, Bombur, and Gandalf.

“I have an announcement to make,” declares Galadriel after the food has been served, and everyone is gathered and waiting expectantly. “In a couple of weeks’ time, I will be holding a party at my studio.”

There are some excited murmurs. Thorin watches Casey whisper something to their partner, who giggles and turns bright pink.

“There will dinner, of course, provided by Bombur’s brother — you are familiar with Bofur’s restaurant, I presume?”

Thorin almost drops his fork. “Small world,” Bilbo remarks next to him.

“Desserts and refreshments will be provided by Bombur’s establishment after dinner.”

“Is it a play party?” asks Casey.

Galadriel smiles. “Yes,” she says. “But the play will be in a separate room, commencing after dinner. There will be a room for more… vanilla activities: dancing, eating, socialising. Then there is the antechamber —”

“The layout of her studio works like this,” Bilbo whispers to Thorin.

“—For negotiations, and then my playroom is open to those who have negotiated and are thus willing to play.” Galadriel looks over at Gandalf then. “Gandalf, of course, will be head of the dungeon monitors, so everything should go as sanely and safely as possible.”

“Who’s invited?” asks Thranduil. Next to him, Bard catches Thorin’s eye across the table and slides a slip of paper over to him. Thorin takes it, raising an eyebrow. Bard puts a finger to his lips.

“The event is open to everyone in the community,” replies Galadriel. “You simply are the first to know. I have clients who may be in attendance, and I will be reaching out to other groups in the London area. I’m expecting a fair amount of attendance.”

“Her studio _is_ pretty large,” adds Bilbo in a whisper. Thorin nods, opening up the slip of paper to read its contents. He looks up at Bard again when done, and Bard nods in the direction of Gandalf before raising an eyebrow at him.

Thorin frowns, and looks at the message again:

_Meet me at Dale Manufacturing. I have something for your investigation._


	28. The Curtain Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of a past abusive relationship as well as hints about a sexually-motivated murder. Once again, please read at your own discretion.

The headquarters of Dale Manufacturing is in Southwark, along the banks of the Thames. Extensive windows on the side of the building facing the river capture the extensive waterfront.

Thorin is standing in one of these rooms, looking out at the vibrant river below. Up here, the boats, the birds, and the people are almost comically small, like miniatures in a diorama. He watches a ferry boat chug slowly across the river to the opposite shore, watches the traffic progress slowly over Tower Bridge like ants on a log.

He hears the click of the door behind him, and turns around to see Bard striding into the room, a folder in his hands and a rather dour expression on his face. It’s interesting seeing him outside a casual environment, but professionalism suits Bard well in more ways than one.

“What exactly do you do here?” wonders Thorin.

“I am a manager, in a sense,” says Bard, tapping the folder as he crosses over to the table. “However, this is not my main job.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “We’re allowed to be here, right?” he asks. “We could have picked a location that didn’t seem so clandestine, after all.”

“The information I’m about to share is best shared somewhere where I can gain access to security feeds.” Bard’s smile is quite thin. “I may not be high up in the corporate structure of my grandfather’s company —”

“Your _grandfather_?” interrupts Thorin. Bard nods, gestures for him to take a seat. Thorin complies, seating himself across the table from the man.

“Girion Archer,” he says, “Former owner and Managing Director of Dale before Archibald Lincoln was promoted. He’d been trying to groom me to take over in the event of his death, but…” He trails off, shrugging. “Other circumstances prevailed.”

“And Archibald Lincoln got your position,” states Thorin.

Bard nods. “It was a decision by the Board of Directors. I’m sure you yourself are all too aware of the whims of that particular segment of corporate leadership.”

Thorin snorts. “But the promotion of Archibald Lincoln is not what you want to talk to me about, is it?” he asks.

Bard nods again, tapping thoughtfully at his folder. “I bring you a joint warning from me and Gandalf Grey,” he says, before pushing the folder across the table at him.

Thorin opens his mouth to ask for an explanation, but Bard seems to anticipate it, and adds: “Correspondences between Dale Manufacturing and Gundabad Enterprises.”

Thorin swallows, and opens the file.

Inside the file are printouts. Screenshots of emails. Photographs. Something deep and ugly inside him curls ever so tighter around his gut. Thorin’s dimly aware his hands are shaking as he reads the correspondences.

 ** _Oakenshield’s not going to give you Erebor on a whim_** , says a message from five months ago, from Archibald Lincoln to Smaug von Brandt. Thorin continues to read, heart sinking further and further as he uncovers these bits and pieces of the story.

**_I know a way to get to Oakenshield._ **

**_Do tell, Mr Lincoln._ **

And there are photographs. Thorin has no idea who took them — and he supposes that’s a good thing, because if he did, they would probably be arrested on the spot — but the photographs show him and Bilbo at Bofur’s restaurant, at the café, getting off the London Eye, walking through Belgrave Square hand-in-hand —

**_I recognise the man he’s with._ **

**_You do? Really?_ **

**_He’s my submissive. My property._** (Thorin growls openly at that.) **_Do you have any idea what he’s up to?_**

**_You remember his name?_**

**_Baggins._ **

**_The name does strike a bell. I think. You remember the Lady Goldenwood?_ **

**_The professional dominatrix, yes._ **

**_She mentioned that some of her favourite whips were bought from a Mr Baggins of Bag End. Bag End’s a sex toy store apparently.  
Here, I’ll give you a link to the website for the store: bagendtoysandpleasures.co.uk_ **

**_This is… most interesting. I thank you for this information, Mr Lincoln._ **

**_What do you plan to do with that information? Remember, you didn’t hear it from me._ **

**_Oh, I certainly have plans, Mr Lincoln. As always, it is a pleasure doing business with you._ **

Thorin sets down the folder and its contents, and runs a shaking hand through his hair. Across the table, Bard fiddles idly with his pen.

“He knew all along,” Thorin growls.

Bard nods. “Gandalf has been doing all he could, keeping Bilbo’s profile low on the internet, not even providing information on the owner of Bag End on its website. But it looks like something slipped.”

Thorin looks at him sharply. “How much do _you_ know?” he demands.

Bard shakes his head. “We’ve kept tabs on Smaug von Brandt ever since Primula Brandybuck threatened to press charges against him for things he did to her cousin.” He pauses, sighing. “You of all people should know how powerful the man is. When you sign a contract to become his submissive, he will always view you as another part of his hoard. Even when you leave, he believes he never stops owning you.”

Thorin grits his teeth. “He thinks he still owns Bilbo.”

Bard nods. “And he’s looking for a way to punish him.”

_Unruly submissives must be punished._

A chill runs down Thorin’s spine at the very suggestion — the very _hint_ that Smaug still believes that Bilbo was his in any way, shape, or form, and that he believes this ownership gives him the right to punish Bilbo for leaving him. For escaping the dragon’s dungeon.

“He was trying to use me to get to Bilbo,” Thorin says after a moment, his voice quiet but his knuckles pale white against the folder.

“Well, he clearly failed to do so,” Bard replies.

“But he found a way,” Thorin insists. “He found _me_.”

Bard reaches across the table and takes the folder from Thorin before his fingers can dig through the paper. He rearranges them carefully, and Thorin watches him, wishing he had something to squeeze. Perhaps a stress ball would come in handy. Or Smaug von Brandt’s neck.

“Is he going to be at the party?” he asks after a long, slow moment, taking deep breaths to calm the racing of his heart. Bard looks up from the folder, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” replies the man. “But if he is, we will be more than equipped to deal with him before he gets anywhere near you or Bilbo.” He smiles a little, as if those words will reassure Thorin in any way. “It will be a safe, sane, and consensual space for everyone.”

Thorin nods. “Let’s hope it stays that way in practice,” he says, and it comes out growlier than he’d expected. Bard raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing as he stows the folder away.

* * *

The sting of the crop against his ass brings him deeper into the fog of pleasure. Thorin moans loudly, his body swaying in time with the crop’s rhythm. The pinch of the wooden clothespins against his nipples have died into a numbing warmth that spreads through him.

“How’s Sting treating you, Your Majesty?” his Consort whispers in his ear, the heart shaped head of the crop gently caressing the sore spots on Thorin’s ass. Thorin hums into the touch, straining against his restraints in order to better present his ass to his Consort. He knows he looks downright filthy, and he doesn’t care.

“Good boy,” murmurs his Consort, and then there’s the whistle and sting again, and Thorin moans again, slipping in and out of hazy awareness for his surroundings. Two sudden pinches of pain cut into the fog of his mind as the clothespins are removed, but the sensation is overruled by a lovely numbing warmth, and the gentleness of his Consort’s thumbs against his sore nipples.

When the scene winds down, Bilbo rubs some soothing lotion onto his reddened and sensitive rear, pressing soft and gentle kisses to it once he’s done. He wraps Thorin in a blanket, placing Thorin’s head in his lap, carding gentle fingers through his hair. Thorin leans into the touch, purring, and is rewarded with a gentle scratch and a chuckle.

“How are we doing?” wonders Bilbo, his fingers working through the tangles.

Thorin hums, still clinging onto the vestiges of the fog. Speech isn’t coming to him; his brain still hasn’t quite remastered forming words just yet. He smiles instead, and reaches up to squeeze Bilbo’s hands twice.

Bilbo chuckles, one hand moving down to play with the buckle on Thorin’s collar. “Would you like this off?” he asks, tracing a finger along the silver acorn detailing. Thorin shakes his head; Bilbo grins, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“What about something to eat and drink?” he asks. Thorin nods.

Moments later, he finds himself cocooned in his sheets and sitting at his kitchen counter, the familiar smell of pancakes drifting to him from the stove. The glass of milk in his hands is a welcome weight, and he contents himself with watching Bilbo move in just one of his button-downs, sleeves rolled up and the material occasionally riding up over his ass.

Bilbo slides a fluffy stack of pancakes with whipped cream and apple slices at him moments later. “Are we feeling more up to speaking now?” he asks.

Thorin gulps down some milk. It runs soothingly through his parched throat, and he swallows heavily before managing a hesitant, “I think so?”

Bilbo chuckles. “Well, then.” He drums his fingers on the counter. Thorin spears one of the apple slices with a fork and dips it in the whipped cream, before offering it to Bilbo. The sight of his partner’s pink tongue lapping lightly at the whipped cream makes Thorin’s own face heat up.

The silence stretches between them, warm and comfortable. Bilbo nibbles at the apple slice, his expression pensive, before taking it completely into his mouth. Thorin’s breath hitches a little as he watches those soft pink lips close around his fork.

“Did you want to ask me something?” he asks, his voice still low and hoarse as he cuts into his pancakes, looking up at Bilbo through his lashes as he does so.

Another pause, another breath. “The party,” says Bilbo after a moment.

“You want to go,” states Thorin, feeling an uneasy curling in his gut at the very idea.

Bilbo nods. “I haven’t been to one in ages,” he says.

“You want me to come with you?” asks Thorin. Bilbo nods again, and Thorin sighs, spearing another apple slice on his fork and offering it to Bilbo.

Bilbo takes the fork, biting his lip as he looks down at the apple. “I know it’s not —” he begins, but Thorin raises a finger, and Bilbo raises his eyebrow, gesturing for him to speak.

“I got a warning from Bard the other day when I went to visit him at Dale,” he says. Bilbo swallows, setting down the apple onto Thorin’s plate again.

“A warning,” he says.

Thorin nods. “Smaug has known all along.” He pops the apple slice into his own mouth, stalling for time. “He’s known that you own Bag End, that you’re in a relationship with me. And what scares me the most is that he might be at this party. Waiting for you to show up.”

“You could go with me,” replies Bilbo, walking over to where Thorin sits and cupping his cheek with one hand. “Wear my collar, stay by my side. We don’t have to play if you don’t want to play in public, but —”

“Still doesn’t comfort me,” Thorin snaps, and the words come out harsher than he intends to. He shakes his head, mumbles an apology, returns to his pancakes. His hand is stilled mid-slice by Bilbo’s, callused but gentle.

“So what if he comes?” asks Bilbo. “I would be less open to attending such a party if I didn’t have you with me, Thorin. That’s the _point_.” He moves to stand on the footrest of the the kitchen stool; Thorin spreads his legs a little to accommodate him, looking upwards at Bilbo, _his_ brave Bilbo.

“If Smaug’s there, I’d rather you be there with me as well,” Bilbo whispers, his lips precious inches from Thorin’s. “I might be able to face him by myself, but I think I’d be better off with you by my side.”

Bilbo’s lips taste of apples and pancake syrup. Thorin draws him in, arms securing the man closer to him as he kisses back, chasing the sweetness of Bilbo’s lips. The curling feeling in his gut doesn’t go away no matter how tightly he clings onto Bilbo, however, but at least for now, he can ignore it.

“I can do this,” Bilbo mutters against his lips, and Thorin wonders if Bilbo’s saying it to reassure him, or himself.

* * *

**_Get a load of this -DI_ **

**_Lancashire police have checked the guest records at Lancaster House -DI_ **

**_They found a Mr Dragonheart and partner who had checked in and out during the time you were there -DI_ **

**_You think that’s von Brandt and the John Doe? -T_ **

**_It seems like the most logical reason, especially given how security camera certainly didn’t find the partner of Mr Dragonheart with him when they checked out -DI_ **

**_You don’t always have to be there when you’re being checked out for two -T_ **

**_None of the feeds show him returning to the premises -DI_ **

**_That’s  
That’s impressive, actually -T_ **

**_It’s not even the tip of the literal goldmine. The autopsy results came in today -DI_ **

**_What were the results? -T_ **

**_< evidence-shoulder.png.> -DI_ **

**_< evidence-neck.png> -DI_ **

**_It’s that scar again. The one in the shape of an S. And the bruises on the neck suggests breathplay -DI_ **

**_You know what that is? -T_ **

**_Autoerotic asphyxiation is not something new -DI_ **

**_Point. Anything else? -T_ **

**_Oh definitely -DI_ **

**_These are first new pieces of evidence we’ve had in years -DI_ **

**_Smaug von Brandt has gotten sloppy -DI_ **

**_What did you find? -T_ **

**_Traces of von Brandt’s DNA was found in the John Doe. -DI_ **

Thorin slumps in his chair at that. His head is spinning; he feels light and limp and very, _very_ relieved. His heart is pounding like he’d just finished running a marathon, and with weary hands he scrubs at his eyes and spins in his chair to look out the window of his office.

**_What kind of DNA? -T_ **

Erebor is that much closer to being safe from Smaug’s clutches. And not simply that — Bilbo is that much closer to being safe from Smaug’s clutches, forever. Just the thought of him owning Bilbo, repossessing Bilbo, harming Bilbo in any way makes that familiar spark of anger light in his chest.

He has to protect Bilbo from Smaug, no matter what. It’s how he serves best.

He hears another ‘ping’, and looks at the message:

**_Traces of skin and hair from a finger that had been inserted prior to death -DI_ **

**_Looks like he should’ve worn gloves -DI_ **

Thorin chuckles a little at that. It’s perfect. They have Smaug where they need him. They could make an arrest.

But then, there was always the need to catch him in the act, to prevent him from having the right script to evade arrest once more. The party. Smaug von Brandt needs to be at the party, and Thorin hates himself all the more for thinking this up.

**_I have a plan to catch him red-handed -T_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The site doesn't actually exist, sorry.
> 
> Also on a somewhat related note: if you're ever wondering (like me, constantly) what this fic might've been like had I applied rule 63 to Bilbo and Thorin, then kindly direct yourself towards [this little PWP ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4123465). Warning that it's in second person fem!Thorin's point of view, though, which could potentially be dysphoric for some readers.


	29. The Play Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am so sorry for this long hiatus. I got a bit blocked, and then the Quest liveblogs (for more information check out [quiterespectblyyours](http://quiterespectablyyours.tumblr.com/) and [exileddurin](http://exileddurin.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr) sucked up the remaining time. Today's the Sex Carnival at my school, so I thought I ought to commemorate it by giving you guys another chapter. Thank you for sticking with me. We're almost through!

“So nice to see you here!” Galadriel’s expression is warm as she shakes Bilbo’s hand. “There are refreshments in the kitchen, if you’re not in a hurry to go upstairs. Bombur and his brother have truly outdone themselves.”

Thorin’s eyes remain downcast as he steps over Galadriel’s threshold into her townhome. Neither he nor Bilbo’s button-downs and jeans are really typical attire for a play party, but Thorin is all too aware of the leather collar around his neck that indicates Bilbo’s claim over him. Just the reminder of that sends shivers down his spine and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Bilbo’s form just a tiny step ahead of him.

 _Bilbo’s idea of protocol isn’t as overt as some of the other couples’ here_ , Thorin muses, as Bilbo leads him into the kitchen and presses a glass of water into his hands. Thorin obeys his Consort, taking a sip as he continues to survey the behaviour of the other party attendees. Some of the other submissives are acting far more overtly deferential, kneeling at the feet of their Dominants with their gaze pinned on them, waiting for permission.

“Some people are just more comfortable with more overt shows of domination,” remarks Bilbo quietly from next to him. “But this is enough for me, what we agreed on for this party.”

Thorin purses his lips and nodds.

“Open up,” Bilbo commands, and Thorin opens his mouth to allow his Consort to slide a small bite of tart into his mouth. The honey lingers on his tongue long after the tart itself is gone.

“We don’t have to play tonight, you know,” continues Bilbo after a moment. “It’s enough that I get to be like this with you in public. I mean, we pretty much never use protocol. Do you like it?”

Thorin nods.

“You can speak, you know. Tell me what you like, and if you’d like to do anything more. You know, kneel when I enter a room, refer to yourself in the third person, always call me Your Highness —”

Thorin chuckles quietly at that. “I’d do anything you want me to do, Beloved,” he says.

“I’m serious, Thorin.” Bilbo extends his hand for Thorin to kiss, and Thorin complies, lingering over the knuckles of Bilbo’s hand and looking up at him through his lashes. “I’m fine with us using just this for our protocol, but if you want something more, you need only tell me.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Anything you are willing to give me, I treasure.” His Consort smirks, slipping his hand from Thorin’s to pat his face firmly. “Come.”

And he leads Thorin away to the stairs.

Upstairs, the music seems even louder. Here, the loft has been turned into another lounge area, ostensibly for negotiations, but what is more interesting are the bedrooms, which have been all been converted into play rooms for the night. As Thorin and Bilbo pass by each of the play rooms, Thorin briefly peers inside each at the couples and groups at play, as well as their spectators.

(A shiver runs through him at the idea of Bilbo playing with him in public, claiming and owning him in front of a crowd. He has never really considered playing with an audience, but there is something _exhilarating_ about the pounding music, about the smell of sex and sweat permeating the air, about the thrumming energy in the room that seems to come right from the scenes being enacted before his eyes.)

Gandalf is on call in the lounge area, wearing a white tee with the words “DUNGEON MONITOR” printed on it in red. “He’s here to make sure things don’t get too dangerous or non-consensual,” explains Bilbo, at Thorin’s questioning glance.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” says Gandalf when they pull up by his side. “I have Bard and another old friend working with me tonight. You shall be in good hands, I hope.”

“Any sign of… _him_?” asks Bilbo, and the intonation leaves no doubt in Thorin’s mind as to who it might be.

“Not yet,” says Gandalf. Bilbo’s hand finds Thorin’s, and Thorin squeezes as reassuringly as he can.

“I haven’t been to one of these in ages,” Bilbo remarks, looking around. “I forgot how fun it could be.”

“I don’t think you ever forget your first play party,” Gandalf says. In the background, a new song begins, and Bilbo’s eyes light up at the sound. Taking Thorin’s hand, the two of them venture out into the middle of the room where some people are already dancing. Together, they begin to sway to the beat, the world narrowing down to the feeling of Bilbo’s hands on Thorin’s waist and the almost miniscule space between them.

Thorin only dimly hears someone yell “safeword” from one of the rooms. Through the crowd, he sees Gandalf heading in that direction. The music plays on, though, even as a young man is brought out of the play room, looking terrified. Gandalf has wrapped him in a blanket and is offering a drink of water.

“Wonder what happened,” Thorin whispers.

“Safeword wasn’t being respected,” replies Bilbo quietly, as Gandalf says something to the young man, who nods his head furiously.

“He tried to choke me!” he snaps, rubbing at his throat. The hoarseness of his voice seems to suggest he is fighting back tears.

“Breathplay is against house rules. You were right to call for me,” Gandalf says.

“Doesn’t stop some sick bastards,” retorts the young man as he heads towards the staircase. Bilbo sighs, his eyes trained on the man’s receding back. Thorin raises an eyebrow in question.

“He reminds me of me when I was younger,” says Bilbo after a moment. “My first play party, where I met Smaug. If only I knew to back out when I still could.”

“But you did back out in the end, didn’t you?” wonders Thorin.

“It could have been more simple,” replies Bilbo. “I could have said no. I could have called for the DM like that bloke.”

Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo’s in response, his hands moving up to cup Bilbo’s cheeks. “You really should stop blaming yourself for decisions you made when you didn’t know better,” he says, and then asks, “May I?”

Bilbo nods, and Thorin dips his head down, pressing a soft kiss to Bilbo’s lips, to his cheeks, his forehead. Bilbo hums, pulling Thorin in closer, and they dance a little while longer, ignoring the rest of the world around them. Thorin’s world narrows in on the hotness of Bilbo’s hands against his body, one resting against the small of his back, the other dipping down to rest in the pocket of his jeans. There’s a squeeze, and Bilbo’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

When the song ends, Bilbo pulls away, leading them back out to the landing. “Thorin, please go get me some water,” he commands, and Thorin obeys, heading downstairs to the kitchen.

He bumps into Casey and their little in the kitchen; the two of them are chatting amiably with Bombur over a small plate of appetisers. Thorin fills a glass of water, not really listening in on their conversation as he tries to memorise the moment around him.

It’s only when he hears a thud from upstairs that he jolts out of the reverie and rushes back upstairs with the water. Gandalf is talking to Bilbo on the landing when Thorin arrives, and Thorin notices almost instantly that his partner’s demeanour is different. Tense. Angry.

“What happened?” Thorin asks, handing Bilbo his water.

Bilbo grits his teeth. “Smaug was here,” he says.

“Did he hurt you?” Gandalf asks.

Bilbo shakes his head as he finishes the glass in one, long draught. “He said things.”

“That still counts as hurting,” Thorin points out. “I need to know, Bilbo. What did he tell you?”

“He said you were using me,” says Bilbo bitterly. “That I’m only a means to an end, an outlet for your desires. That I shouldn’t have strayed from his dungeon, where I would have been _safe_ from a broken heart.”

Thorin scowls. “That’s not true,” he says, as Gandalf takes the glass from Bilbo.

“I know it isn’t. I told him as much.”

“You punched him in the face, Bilbo,” Gandalf points out, almost merrily.

“Amounts to the same thing,” Bilbo retorts. “It’s the only language in which he understands the word ‘no’.”

Gandalf chuckles, but his expression quickly sobers as he looks towards the crowd. “Where is he now?”

Bilbo shrugs, gesturing towards the play rooms again. Gandalf nods and heads in that direction, leaving Bilbo and Thorin together on the landing.

Quietly, Thorin puts an arm around Bilbo, pressing their foreheads together again. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Much better now,” Bilbo replies, and something tugs in Thorin’s chest at that. He presses a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek, protocol be damned.

“Something still worries you, though,” he remarks.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, before looking up at Thorin and shaking his head. “I believed those words about you when Smaug first said them,” he confesses. “And then I realised he was playing his old mind games. That he was trying to crawl back under my skin, and I — it was hard to pull away, Thorin. I forgot how hard it was.”

Thorin’s response is to pull Bilbo in tighter. His partner’s breath is shaky against his ear, but his heartbeat was still steady and sure. “Gandalf will have words with him, I’m sure,” Thorin whispers into his ear. “He’ll be found and kicked out. We don’t have to have him ruin this party for us.”

Bilbo seems to grit his teeth, but he nods, and rests his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

“I just want to let it go, Thorin,” he says after a moment. “I don’t want to be weighted down by my feelings about this anymore. All of that guilt and rage that I’ve bottled up over the years, all of the things I’m still trying to unlearn — I want it gone, all of it.”

He presses kisses to Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin says nothing, only listens. It is all he can give in this moment, his silence.

“Just seeing him in person, and knowing it’s him, and knowing he can still get to me like that — I feel horrible, Thorin. Horrible, and — and frustrated, and dirty — not even in the fun way — and I just — please. Help me make it go away.”

Thorin isn’t sure what makes him say what he says next. All he knows is that he means it, that it feels right, somehow. He nuzzles against Bilbo’s forehead, watching a couple exit one of the play rooms wrapped in blankets and each other, and he says:

“Take it out on me.”

There’s a pause. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Bilbo murmurs.

Thorin laughs. “I know my limits, and I trust you with yours. You’re not going to hurt me.”

Bilbo bites his lips, looking towards the hallway. Every line in his body seems tense with temptation.

“I don’t want to bring all of that negativity into the scene,” he says.

“But you need somewhere to let go of your grief and your rage, Beloved,” murmurs Thorin. “This is as good a place as any.” He pauses. “And I’m also wearing something under my clothes that you’ll really like.”

Bilbo chuckles at that. “No closed doors, Thorin,” he points out. “You’ll get an audience. Do you really want to do it?”

It really is too simple, then. Thorin laughs, and takes Bilbo’s hand. “That’s all right,” he says. “You’re the only one that matters.”

* * *

The music of the party seems to thrum in his veins, its steady pulse keeping in time with his own beating heart. Though he is blindfolded and facing the cross, away from their audience, Thorin can feel everyone else’s eyes on his bound and exposed body. He’s stripped down to lacy black knickers, the material so thin as to be practically nonexistent.

In all honesty, he might as well not have worn anything at all.

Thorin takes a deep breath and tries to remember his name. His head is spinning and his blood is singing, and oh, does he enjoy it. The sting of the crop against his ass, the press of the blindfold against his eyes. He is more aware of himself in this moment than ever before, more aware of each beat of his heart and each tingle left behind from the crop.

His Consort trails the soft side of the crop across his back. “How are we feeling, my pet?” he purrs.

Thorin moans in response, causing his Consort to tug at his hair, tilting his head back.

“That’s not an answer.” A solid warm body presses against him, breath panting hot against his neck. Thorin arches towards his Consort, straining against the restraints that bind him to the cross.

“ _Please_ ,” he moans. “Please don’t stop.”

“I love it when you _beg_ ,” murmurs his Consort.

Thorin feels a flick of tongue against the curve of his ear, and shivers. The rub of the sheer, silky material of his knickers against his skin only makes him harder. He bites his lip, before letting out a low, dirty moan at the next hit of the crop against his ass. In this moment, all he knows is the sting of the crop and the pounding of the music in his ears, the two sensations clashing and yet so very in sync with the beating of his own heart. For one dizzy second he thinks he can even hear the heartbeats of all the people who are watching.

“You should see yourself, naughty king,” pants his Consort in his ear when the crop pauses. Thorin feels his Consort’s hands against his ass now, cupping and rubbing, before giving him a solid spank. “Dressed in nothing but this flimsy little _thing_. Do you dress like this for the diplomats, too?”

Thorin can’t respond to that; his cheeks have flared up. His Consort snaps the waistband of his knickers, before reaching up to pinch lightly at his nipples.

“What if I made you, hm? Just left you like this, bared and bound and blindfolded, in the throne room for the diplomats to find. I’m sure the folks from the Greenwood would be _delighted_ to see you in such a state, my king.”

Thorin moans. There’s a satisfied chuckle, before his Consort moves away and the crop begins to sing again. And with each beat of the song pounding in the background, with each smack of the crop, he flies higher and higher until the world falls away, and nothing exists except his Consort and himself. He’s dimly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks, of the swaying and straining of his body against the restraints, of his wanton moans and mewls. But all that matters is that his Consort is giving this to him, this exquisite gift of sensation, and all he can do is express his gratitude in the best way he knows how.

“How much more until you learn your lesson, my king?” His Consort’s voice pierces the fog.

Thorin sways and hums in response. He must be babbling, as he’s not sure what he’s saying. Maybe it’s a declaration of love. Maybe it’s an expression of gratitude. Maybe he said the word ten, because then the crop returns ten times, each time harder than the last, until Thorin is absolutely wrecked against the cross, sobbing and moaning in one jumbled mess of reaction, hurtling onwards into some sort of climax of pain and pleasure.

And then he feels the coolness of lotion against his warm but numb ass, and the blindfold is removed from his eyes and the restraints taken off his wrists and ankles. Suddenly he can move again, and lethargy seems to seep into his very bones. Bilbo’s hands rub more lotion onto his wrists and ankles, peppered in between with kisses. Then, a soft, warm blanket is draped over his shoulders.

The crowd watching them has dispersed.

Thorin wants to ask Bilbo how he’s doing, but the words won’t come. He wipes at his eyes, only to find that Bilbo has already dried his tears and is now pressing a glass of water into his hands. Thorin drinks greedily, and when his knees begin to shake, Bilbo has a sofa for him to lie down on. It is cushioned and soft, and Bilbo’s arms are warm.

Only when his brain becomes something close to clear again does Thorin realise that there are tear tracks down Bilbo’s own cheeks, and he raises his hand to cup Bilbo’s face, running a thumb down his partner’s cheek, one eyebrow quirked in puzzlement. Bilbo smiles a little, leaning down and kissing Thorin’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he says.

Thorin raises the other eyebrow, and somehow Bilbo seems to understand perfectly.

“I needed that,” he says simply.

Thorin smiles a little, takes Bilbo’s hand, and presses a kiss to the knuckles. And as he lies on the couch with his head in Bilbo’s lap, with Bilbo massaging soothing circles into his scalp, Thorin closes his eyes, and thinks back to the sensations with a dizzy little smile.

* * *

It only feels like seconds after he has laid his head down, but a thump from the direction of the play rooms startles Thorin out of his reverie. Blinking, he raises his head from Bilbo’s lap, and looks around him groggily. The darkened party venue feels almost like a dream, a mad otherworldly frenzy of lights and bodies.

“What’s going on?” His tongue feels like lead when he says the words. Bilbo makes a confused noise, his hand also stilling in their stroking of Thorin’s hair.

A woman screams, and a crowd struggles, and sirens are roaring from somewhere outside. But before Thorin really grasps the situation, Bard and Gandalf are already up the stairs, hurtling past the crowd with Dáin Ironfoot, paramedics, and some suited people hot on their heels. Thorin shakily rises to his feet, wrapping his blanket around him as he begins to stagger towards the sound of the commotion.

Bilbo is at his side in a second. “Thorin,” he warns.

“What’s going on?” repeats Thorin, the words crumbling in his mouth as he says it. “What’s going on?”

“Thorin, please, sit back down. You just came out of a scene —” begins Bilbo, but he trails off, and Thorin is about to ask why when he notices that all he can hear is silence. Even the music has stopped. The crowd gathered in front of one of the play rooms parts to admit the paramedics, who are carrying out on a stretcher yet another young man wrapped in a blanket. As they pass Thorin, he looks down and startles at the sight.

It’s Bain Archer, his freckles dark against his chalky white face. The blanket covers as much of him as possible, but the purpling bruises around his neck are still evident. Thorin swallows; the only thing that isn’t unsettling about the whole situation is that Bain is breathing. Shallowly, but still breathing.

The paramedics are followed by Bard, whose own expression is pallid, wide-eyed. Behind Bard is Dáin, forcefully walking a handcuffed Smaug von Brandt towards the staircase. As they pass by Thorin, Smaug sends a smirk just over Thorin’s shoulder to Bilbo, and Thorin can feel his partner tense beside him.

But when he turns, he sees that Bilbo’s expression is defiant, staring Smaug directly in the face rather than diverting his gaze. Confronting. Confident. _Dominant_.

It sends a shiver down Thorin’s spine and an explosion of something so warm and loving and prideful in his stomach. It makes him take Bilbo’s hand. Bilbo squeezes back.

“Is Bain going to be alright?” Thorin wonders as they watch the procession down the stairs, with Dáin handing Smaug over to the suited people — from the National Crime Agency, Thorin realises with a skip of his heart — and Bard following the paramedics and his son out the door. Gandalf, who has emerged from the room last, nods.

“We got to him just in time. Someone noticed that the door to one of the rooms was closed, and alerted us,” he said.

Thorin shakes his head. “It didn’t need to come to that,” he says after a moment. “To Bard’s own son getting hurt. I —”

“Your suggestion was crucial,” interrupts Gandalf. “And it was your insistence on investigating the matter further that helped me convince the NCA to reopen the case properly.”

Next to them, Bilbo is listening in with an expression that clearly says that Thorin has a lot of explaining to do in the near future. Thorin looks at his partner, and sighs, feeling in this moment that he’d confess just about anything that Bilbo would have asked for. So he nods, and squeezes Bilbo’s hand again.

Bilbo smiles at that. “Let’s go home,” he suggests, and Thorin obediently follows him down the stairs, one half-step behind with his eyes on his Consort only.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Safe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053550) by [Lakritzwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf)
  * [Leather and Lace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140141) by [ironhawkofmischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironhawkofmischief/pseuds/ironhawkofmischief)




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